Erroris of Vestri Mores
by ShadowBallad
Summary: ON HIATUS FOR REVISION Someone is attacking Prof. Snape, and Hermione is blamed! With help from her friends, Prof. McGonagall, a temporary truce with Draco, and a reluctant Head of Slytherin, Hermione sets out to discover who is really behind the attacks!
1. 1: Questioned Loyalty

Erroris of Vestri Mores

By Shadow Ballad

DISCLAIMER: I own none of the characters or situations related to J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. The only character I own is Theodore Gershwin, and I guess the plot is mine too. I am just playing with the wonderful puppet theatre Rowling has left behind;) Take note; the disclaimer and warning appear in Chapter One only.

Warning: AU past OoTP; non-HPB compliant; sixth year fic, and Sirius is alive. Little to no romance; may hint at HP/GW, HG/RW. MM/SS friendship for sure, a little HG/SS tolerance/mentorship included as well. No slash or sexual situations; rated T for slight language and violence. Rating may go up eventually; I don't know yet.

A/N: I am not British, so if I get vocabulary/syntax/something incorrectly, please correct me! And now…on to the fic!

* * *

Chapter One: Questioned Loyalty

Ah, the first day of term. What had been an almost pleasant summer was now to be ruined by the return of those little buggers. _A shame, really_, he thought, staring blankly at the trinkets and various knickknacks around Dumbledore's office as the Headmaster offered lemon drops. The dark man automatically refused the old wizard's offer of sweets; it got a bit old after about the tenth time around.

"Chocolate Frog, then?" asked Dumbledore, holding out a box of candy, his blue eyes twinkling in that maddening way of his.

"No thank you, sir," Severus Snape replied, vaguely wondering what part of that statement Dumbledore didn't understand. He'd only been telling the man "no" to his incessant offerings of sweets for fifteen years!

"Cockroach Cluster, perhaps?"

Severus met this offer with a dark scowl. "Really, Albus; if you insist on offering me sweets, at least offer something _edible_." He impatiently puffed a strand of jet black hair out of his face, wondering when Dumbledore would get to the point; after all, he had potions to brew for Poppy and a classroom to ready before the monsters arrived later that evening.

Dumbledore just smiled his maddening little grin and popped the sweet into his mouth, causing Severus to grimace in distaste. After chewing for what seemed like an eternity – _Merlin, the man could be so bloody annoying! –, _the Headmaster folded his hands on his desk and gazed at Severus appraisingly.

"I'm sure this year will be much better than last," he said suddenly, shaking the Potions Master so abruptly from thoughts of how to protect his dungeons from the likes of Neville Longbottom that he blinked once before replying.

"Ah, yes indeed, sir. Happily, that Umbridge woman is no longer with us…I highly congratulate the centaurs on their, ah, _fortuitous _course of action," Severus replied, sneering at the very memory of the overgrown toad of a woman and her abominable pink cardigan.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he stared back at Snape down his very crooked nose. "I was referring to Occlumency lessons with Mr. Potter," he said in what Severus thought was meant to be an off-hand tone, but greatly lacking in subtlety. Honestly, Gryffindors had no tact at all.

"When I ended them last year, I ended them permanently," Severus said, putting up an expressionless mask to hide his wave of severe anger. If it was anything he was _not_ looking forward to this year, it was having the Potter brat prancing around Hogwarts like he owned the place!

"I was hoping that you would resume them, Severus," the Headmaster said quietly in a voice that brooked no nonsense or contradiction. The Potions Master allowed his lip to curl in his patented sneer, ready to say **exactly **what Dumbledore could do with that idea when there came a tentative knock on the door.

Quirking a dark, slender eyebrow at the Headmaster, Severus watched as Dumbledore called for the knocker to enter his office. Immediately another wave of displeasure rose like bile in Severus's throat as the man who had entreated entry stepped nervously inside. His watery blue eyes reminded the Potions Master forcefully of that rat Pettigrew, and his messy, mousy brown hair gave Severus the unexplainable desire to shave the man bald and kick him forcefully from the room.

"Ah yes, good afternoon, Theodore," Dumbledore said warmly, shaking the intruder's hand as if he had known him for years. "I don't suppose you've been introduced to the school's Potions Master, hmm? Severus, Theodore Gershwin; Theodore, Severus Snape," added the Headmaster with a come-hither glance at Severus. Resisting the urge to Floo back to his private chambers instead, the black clad man rose to shake hands with Gershwin, who gave him a nervous little smile. He returned it with his best sneer, banishing his colleague's cheery manner instantaneously.

"I'm sure you both will get along quite well," Dumbledore stated, beaming at the two men as though they were the best of friends.

_Bollocks_, thought Severus as Gershwin hesitantly lowered himself into a chair near the moody Potions Master. _Not as long as _you _don't trust me enough to give me the job _I _am the best qualified to teach!_

"Don't mind Severus; you'll get used to him in time," the Headmaster said consolingly to Gershwin, who had been nervously eyeing him for a few moments. Severus snorted and shot a venomous glance at the new Defence teacher, daring him to even _try._ The other man seemed to sense his hostility as he quickly jerked his eyes away from the man in black and nervously tapped his fingers on the edge of his armchair. "Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered the dish of sweets to Gershwin, who thanked him and popped one into his mouth.

Having had quite enough of his time wasted so thoroughly, Severus stood and rearranged his frock coat before turning to Dumbledore. "Forgive me, Headmaster, but I have some potions brewing in the dungeons that I must attend to." Barely waiting for the older wizard's nod of consent, Severus excited the peculiar little office in a dramatic swirl of dark robes.

* * *

_Exactly what was Albus up to, hiring a jumpy little prick like that?_ Severus thought, pouring a Drought of Peace into flasks for Madam Pomfrey's store in the hospital wing. The man practically leapt ten feet in the air if you so much as glanced at him! Granted, the looks Severus had been throwing him would have scared the willies out of a first-year Hufflepuff, but that notwithstanding, the man was a _wuss_! 

Silvery vapour hung in the air as Severus jabbed the cork into the last flask a little more violently than necessary. He collected the flasks of Drought of Peace and settled them onto his desk for labelling and had just turned to his third cauldron (this one smelled like rotten eggs) when there came a tentative knock on his door.

"Enter," Severus replied coldly as the door swung open to reveal Theodore Gershwin, who looked quite nervous. Fleetingly wondering if the man had the expression Charmed permanently on his face, the Potions Master spared him an icy glare before dipping his quill in the inkpot on his desk and proceeding to label the flasks in his precise, flowing script.

Gershwin, seemingly impervious to being ignored, suddenly said in a raspy voice, "So…these are the dungeons." He rocked back and forth on his feet, waiting for Severus to take up the thread of conversation.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious; I would never have guessed it myself," Severus snapped, immediately irked at the man's lack of realizing when he wasn't wanted.

"Bit dreary, isn't it?"

Severus grunted noncommittally and continued labelling the flasks as Gershwin explored the classroom and his office.

"Merlin, is that a _grindylow_ you've got back there?" The dark man lifted his head to see his unwanted guest gazing in fascination at the many things floating in jars lining his office.

"Get out of there!" he barked waspishly, becoming even angrier as Gershwin decided to ignore him and peruse the specimen closer by removing it from its place on the shelf. Growling wordlessly Severus snatched his wand from inside his robes and practically flew to where the Defence teacher was admiring the pickled grindylow.

"_Put the bloody jar back on the bloody shelf!_" With a twitch of his wand, the jar flew from Gershwin's hands and rejoined its fellows back in its proper place. "Out! Get out _now_!" he demanded hotly, grabbing the intruder's shoulder and swinging him round forcefully to meet his gaze.

He was not the least bit prepared to come face-to-face with Gershwin's wand pointing smartly at his neck.

Instead of the annoying, kindly nervous man he met in Dumbledore's office, the man before him wore a snarl that could rival his own, and his eyes were now harder than steel.

"Not very accommodating, are you," the new Gershwin sneered in the same raspy voice as before. Only this time, it was absolutely devoid of kindness. "I must say, if you greet every new teacher this way, you must have quite the list of enemies, hmm?" He used his wand to brush a strand of raven hair away from Severus's cheek, causing the dark man to shudder inwardly.

A humourless smirk played on the edges of the other's mouth. "You would do well to consider what you say. Just because I got the job _you_ wanted is no reason to forgo common courtesies." Severus flinched, briefly wondering how the man knew about his wish to teach DADA before hastily strengthening the shields on his mind and stepping away from the wand point.

"If you would be so kind as to leave?" he said forcefully through clenched teeth, adding, "as I have important work to complete before this evening?"

Gershwin merely graced him with a calculating frown before returning his wand to a pocket inside his well-cut brown robes. Severus jerked a long, pale finger in the direction of the exit, locking eyes with the intruder and willing him to leave with every ounce of his strength.

The other lifted his chin, perhaps appraising the Potions Master, before slipping back into the kind demeanour once again. "Forgive me, Severus," he said with not even a trace of mockery, offering a little bow as he did so.

"That's Professor Snape to you," Severus growled, reinforcing his wish for the man to leave by jerking his hand once more in the door's direction.

"Good day, then," Gershwin said amiably, for all the world as if he had never attacked or threatened the Potions Master in his own dungeons. He needlessly dusted off his robes and gave Severus a nervous smile that didn't quite reach his eyes before stepping out into the hallway beyond, leaving the slender man alone in brooding silence.

* * *

The thousands of floating candles cast their soft glow throughout the entire Great Hall as the Sorting Hat finished its song and was met with tumultuous applause. As Professor McGonagall, the Transfiguration teacher, called "Aberforthe, Samuel!" to be Sorted, Harry Potter couldn't help but feel that he had finally come home after an excruciatingly long holiday. 

"RAVENCLAW!" shouted the hat, and the table to Harry's left erupted in shouts of pleasure as the new first year joined his House. "Anderson, George!" was next.

"Did you hear that, Ron? That boy, he has the same name as your brother!" Hermione Granger whispered to the red-haired boy sitting next to Harry.

The Hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" before Ron could answer, and it was a few seconds until he could manage to speak above the noise their table was making to greet the first new edition.

"Yeah, I heard," he replied while clapping for George Anderson. "I'll have to tell him next time we visit their joke shop." Hermione pursed her lips at this; apparently she agreed with Mrs. Weasley that a joke shop wasn't a proper occupation for the twins. But they had fun and made good money, and goodness knew everyone could do with some laughs after that fiasco at the Ministry.

Despite the memories his friends' words brought, Harry felt as though he'd swallowed a whole mug of butterbeer: warm and happy. "Pity that he couldn't be hear to see the kid, really," Ron continued as "Brandon, Layne!" became a new Slytherin. "He'd have so much fun, what with having someone with the same name in the Common Room and all. I can just imagine all the jokes he'd play on him…"

"And it would be our duty as prefects to stop it," Hermione interrupted firmly, casting a slightly disapproving glance at Ron. "Picking on first years isn't good fun, contrary to popular opinion."

Ron gazed helplessly at her, and then turned beseechingly to Harry. "Oh come off it! It would be fun to watch them go at it, right, Harry?"

Harry, not wanting to involve himself in an argument their first day back, merely shrugged and clapped as a new Hufflepuff named "Derrick, Marie!" took her seat at her new House table. "I wonder who the new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher is this year," he said instead, changing the subject before Ron and Hermione could further anger themselves. Duly distracted, his two friends followed his gaze to the Head Table where the Hogwarts Staff sat watching the Sorting, many sporting bored expressions on their faces.

Next to Snape, Harry's least favourite teacher of them all, sat a nervous-looking fellow with a mess of mousy brown hair hanging in his eyes. Harry couldn't blame the man, really; Snape seemed extra livid tonight for some reason. He barely clapped three times for the new students before resuming his usual sneer, sitting ramrod straight in his seat and thoroughly ignoring the new teacher sitting next to him. The Boy Who Lived couldn't help but wonder what kind of teacher he'd be like; last year's teacher had been a complete disaster. Thankfully, the centaurs had solved _that _particular problem quite well.

"I wonder what this bloke's going to be like," Ron mused aloud as he too gazed at the new teacher.

"Ron! You really shouldn't call him that!" Hermione scolded as a new Gryffindor joined their ranks. "You've no idea what he's like!"

"Couldn't be worse than that Umbridge woman," Ron said flippantly with a wave of his hand.

"_No one_ could be worse than her," said Harry grimly as a new Ravenclaw took her seat. The scars on the back of his hand began to burn as if the mere mention of the teacher who gave them to him caused them to ache. Unconsciously Harry ran his left hand over the right in an attempt to sooth the pain.

"Well, Lockhart wasn't all that great either," Ron pointed out. "I mean, Cornish _pixies_? Come on!"

"I just wish Lupin was back," sighed the Boy Who Lived. "He was the best teacher we ever had, hands down." This thought brought images of the werewolf to Harry's mind as more new students found their places. His mind began to drift, wondering what Lupin was doing now; whether he was on Order business or safely hiding in Number 12, Grimmauld Place, with Sirius.

Sirius. His godfather. He hadn't been well ever since the top secret Order mission to rescue him from behind the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. Harry had barely spoken two words with the Animagus after that, but had promptly noticed that the haunted look in his godfather's eyes was more pronounced after his harrowing experience.

A sudden pain in his side brought Harry back to the present, and as he jerked back into reality, he felt another poke in his ribs. "Ow! Quit it!" he exclaimed, trying to slap off whoever was jabbing him.

"Sorry, but you sort of, well, spaced out," said Hermione unrepentantly. "Dumbledore's about to make his speech; I thought you'd like to hear it." Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward his friend as the Headmaster, decked in robes of deep violet and decorated with silver moons, stood to address the students.

"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!" he exclaimed happily, which was met with thunderous applause and a few whistles. "I just have a few words to say before we tuck in to our succulent feast. First, I would like to welcome a new teacher to our staff: Professor Theodore Gershwin, who will be your new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher!" The new teacher nervously stood up to polite applause, but didn't remain standing too long. Harry wondered if he was as jumpy as he seemed, or if it was just a case of first-night nerves. "I would also like to let new students know that the forest at the edge of the grounds is off limits. A few of our returning students should take note as well," he added, and Harry could have sworn those blue eyes twinkled at him. "Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has kindly asked me to remind you all that no magic is to be used between classes, and that the list of forbidden objects has been updated. For the full list, please visit Mr. Filch's office. And now, tuck in!"

At the Headmaster's last words the golden plates filled with delicious food from the kitchens below, accompanied by flagons of pumpkin juice. Suddenly ravenous, Harry tipped pork chops onto his plate and took a huge swig of pumpkin juice. It was even better than he remembered it; the house elves must have really outdone themselves tonight. That, or a summer of practically starving at the Dursley's reinforced his appreciation for fine food.

Beside him Hermione was chatting animatedly about all the subjects she was taking during Sixth Year. "I can hardly wait for my schedule; oh, I do hope I have Arithmancy sometime tomorrow! I can't wait to learn all the material Professor Vector told us that sixth years get to study, it sounds so exciting!"

"I just can't believe I passed my Potions O.W.L," said Neville Longbottom with a touch of pride in his voice. Everyone knew Potions was his worst subject because he was terrified of Professor Snape, and Snape only made it worse by constantly bullying him. "But I got an "O" in Herbology! My grandmother was so proud, she didn't know I had it in me!"

On and on the Gryffindors talked, the discussion turning to Quidditch, the wizarding world's favourite sport. Ron told anyone who would listen how well the Chudley Cannons, his favourite team, were doing this year. "I reckon they have a chance at the Quidditch Cup this year!" he said excitedly to Seamus Finnegan, who shook his head violently and started talking about the team he wanted to win. Harry ate in silence, enjoying the friendly chatter and helping himself to an extra large treacle tart when the dessert course came round.

Finally the tinkle of forks against plates died down and the food faded from the tables. Students from all four Houses sighed contentedly, many yawning and sleepily wondering when Dumbledore would dismiss them to their dorms. Harry was feeling quite drowsy himself when the Headmaster bade them all good night, and he gratefully followed the rest of his House to Gryffindor Tower.

The portrait of the Fat Lady hung in front of the entrance to Gryffindor common room; tonight, she seemed to have had a bit too much to drink. "Hic – password?" she asked with a sloppy grin on her face, waving her half-full glass around and splashing herself with a bit of the wine it contained.

"Unicorn horn," said Hermione promptly. The Fat Lady giggled and took another sip of her drink.

"That's – hic! – the one!" she replied, swinging open and allowing the Gryffindors to enter.

This, too, was just as Harry remembered it; plump armchairs in front of the fireplace and plenty of space to do homework. He looked rather longingly at his favourite armchair, but a jaw-cracking yawn changed his mind, and he headed up the staircase to the sixth year boys' dormitory. "'Night, Ron," he called to his friend, who waved and rolled his eyes at the first years. It was his duty as a prefect to make sure the new students were up to date on everything they needed to know.

Happy that he didn't have that responsibility, Harry made his way into the dormitory he shared with Dean Thomas, Neville, Ron and Seamus. He found his trunk next to his bed and promptly changed into his pyjamas, then plopped unceremoniously onto his four-poster bed and leaned heavily back into the pillows. It felt so good to be back at Hogwarts.

After removing his glasses and placing them carefully on the nightstand, Harry drew the curtains around his bed closed and snuggled into the comfortable bedding, trying to think about the next day but falling asleep before he could get past breakfast.

* * *

Gershwin was decidedly odd, and that Severus Snape knew for a fact. After their little chat in the dungeons earlier in the day, the man had avoided him like the plague. When their paths happened to cross, he would give him a nervous smile and a cheerful greeting before going his own way. No more threats or snarls from the man since that morning. 

If Severus didn't know better, he'd say that the man was afflicted with what Muggles called Multiple Personality Disorder.

As he strode purposefully toward his private chambers in the dungeons, snarling at every student who was unfortunate to fall in his path, he wondered if whether bending over cauldrons and inhaling their smoke all day for the past fortnight had caused him to imagine the entire scene. He might have believed it, if the vision of the man's sharp circular face contorted in a snarl too like his own wasn't fixed prominently in his head at the moment. No, he had most certainly _not_ imagined it.

With an impatient wave of his wand, Severus dissolved the wards around his chambers and strode inside, letting the door close behind his retreating back. If he had bothered to look behind him, he would have noted a face appear in the line between door and frame.

Severus's chambers were decorated in green and black. A comfortable black leather sofa sat in front of a huge stone fireplace, which wasn't lit and hardly ever was. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase dominated the wall left of the sofa, lined with tomes covering subjects from advanced Potion making to jinxes and hexes.

Another wave of his wand lit the torches in the brackets along the wall, causing merry flames to cast dark shadows in favourable places around the room. Severus, preoccupied with returning his cloak to his wardrobe, disappeared into his bedroom and didn't see the figure of Theodore Gershwin slip quietly into his chambers and settle himself into a corner, obscured by the shadows.

Ignorant of his guest, Severus returned from his bedroom, kneading his temples at the thought of teaching first years immediately after breakfast the next morning. He stopped short of the sofa, noticing that the door had not closed after his entrance a few minutes prior. Emitting a grunt of annoyance, the Potions Master strode toward the offending door and slammed it shut, hard enough to rattle the torches along the walls.

With a sigh he lowered himself onto the sofa, kicking out of his black boots, propping his stockinged feet on the coffee table in front of him, and leaning back into the comfortable leather, enjoying what he was sure was the last moment of peace he would have that year. His black eyes strayed to the parchment beside his feet, and he couldn't help but emit another small sigh at the words it contained.

"Between teaching, attending both sides' meetings and spying, I'll be lucky to survive in one sane piece," he said to himself with a low laugh devoid of humour. Casually Severus lifted the parchment from the table in one elegant hand, and then in a burst of rebellion, chucked it into the fireplace. "_Incendio_!" he shouted, causing flames to leap up and lick greedily at the letter. For some strange reason he derived great pleasure from watching the bit of parchment slowly burn to ashes, and never glanced away from the fireplace until it was completely burned up.

As Severus watched the fire, Gershwin stealthily crept from his hiding place only to be faced with the dilemma of somehow opening the door without the Potions Master noticing. Slipping his wand from his pocket, he whispered an incantation and levitated a heavy book from its place on the shelf. Before Severus could notice the tome floating beside him, Gershwin ended the spell and the book hit the stone floor with a loud, resounding THUMP!

The dark man started as the loud noise echoed throughout his chamber, eyes scanning the room wildly to see what had made the noise and coming to rest on the empty slot in his bookshelf. Frowning, he looked beside the couch and saw his copy of _One Thousand Curses and Counter Curses for the Advanced Wizard_ lying beside him on the floor.

"How the bloody hell did that get on the floor?" he raged to himself, rising from the sofa to replace the book in its proper nook alongside its fellows. Gershwin seized this opportunity to race to the door, open it with his wand, and steal into the dark corridors beyond, melting into the shadows like a ghost.

Mystified at the strange occurrence, Severus turned from replacing the book to find his door open once again. His patience already stretched to its limits, Severus frowned darkly and paced angrily toward the door, flinging it open and peering into the corridor.

"Who's out there?" he shouted, immediately feeling rather foolish, as the corridor seemed to be deserted. His scowl only deepened when no culprit appeared, and he was about to write the entire incident off when an ink pellet came sailing out of nowhere to hit the frame next to his right hand.

"PEEVES!" Severus snarled, whipping out his wand and trying to hex the annoying poltergeist as he swooped past the Potions Master's chambers, cackling and pelting more ink pellets as he zoomed down the hallway.

Feeling thoroughly disgusted by the night's turn of events, Severus slammed the door so hard that one of the torches fell from its bracket and immediately extinguished itself. Kicking the piece of wood moodily out of his way, Severus launched himself into his bedroom and onto his bed, not even bothering to don his nightshirt as he waited for sleep to overtake him.

* * *

Gershwin knelt beside the fireplace, head bowed reverently before the wizard whose head floated disconcertingly amongst the flames. "That is all I have to report, Wormtail," he said in his raspy voice. "Tell our Lord everything, and leave nothing out, please." Inwardly he cringed at having to abase himself so before such slime as Wormtail, but endured it anyway. 

Wormtail nodded and his head disappeared from the fireplace. Gershwin wondered what the Dark Lord would make of his report; after all, Snape's musings could mean two different things. Wishing he could give his report in person, and attempting to decipher exactly what Snape had meant earlier, he was completely unprepared for the head that popped into the fireplace.

"M-my Lord!" he stammered, quickly prostrating himself on the floor before the face of Lord Voldemort. "I was not expecting the honour of speaking to you myself!" Shocked by his master's sudden appearance, he could find nothing else to say and clamped down on his jaw to keep from blathering on like a fool.

"That is quite alright, Theodore," Voldemort replied in a cold, unnaturally high-pitched voice. "Wormtail has just finished informing me of your report."

"T-that is good, my Lord," Gershwin mumbled into the carpet. He risked a glance into the fireplace to see red slits in a pure white face gazing back at him and quickly lowered his gaze once again. "Forgive me, my Lord, but is it not dangerous for you to speak to me using the fireplace? What if – "

" – Dumbledore discovers me?" interrupted Voldemort. Gershwin nodded silently. The Dark Lord clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "My dear Theodore, do you think me so stupid?" Gershwin's face drained of all colour.

"N-no, of course not – "

"_Crucio!_"

It was a full minute before the Dark Lord ended the curse. Gershwin panted heavily from the pain and sweated from keeping his screams to a minimum so as not to wake anyone potentially dangerous. "No one questions Lord Voldemort, Theodore," Voldemort said in a quiet voice that made the man before him shudder.

"N-never again, my Lord…"

Completely ignoring Gershwin, Voldemort said, "It seems as though Severus may indeed be the spy among the Death Eaters." A long, spidery finger caressed his lips thoughtfully. "Alas, he was important to us, bringing us information on Dumbledore and his senile plots…not to mention I thought him one of my most faithful followers…Theodore!"

Jerking from suddenly being addressed, Gershwin resisted the urge to curl up into a defensive ball and instead raised his eyes a fraction of a centimetre so he could see Voldemort in his peripheral vision. "Yes, my Lord?" he rasped.

"I don't want to believe Severus is indeed the traitor without further concrete evidence. However, he seems to be…_lax_…in his efforts as of late. Therefore, I want you to devise four punishments to bring him back to his senses. They will test where his true loyalties lie. My only stipulation is that he lives through them all to see the error of his ways. Other than that, let your imagination guide you…" Voldemort trailed off, a sinister grin upon his horrible countenance.

"And what if Snape is found wanting, my Lord?" Gershwin risked asking in a small voice. The grin spread wider on the Dark Lord's face.

"If that occurs, you shall bring him to me for punishment. Death is too good for traitors, Theodore; he'll suffer and beg me for death, ruing the day he ever _thought_ of betraying Lord Voldemort." With this said, Voldemort's head disappeared with a small _pop, _leaving Gershwin alone in his chambers, trembling.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this was such a long chapter, but I wanted to set the mood for the rest of the story right off the bat. Please review, it motivates me to write more and improves my writing along the way. If you feel you must flame, please be polite about it!  

As long as at least one person is interested in seeing this continually updated, I'll post as often as possible. If not, well, I'll just continue writing it for myself.

Thanks for reading!


	2. 2: Voco Geminus

Erroris of Vestri Mores

By Shadow Ballad

A/N: Thanks so much for the kind reviews! I'll try to update ASAP, but school and life may dictate otherwise…so…yeah. Thanks once again for reading! If you see any mistakes, please point them out:) I'm also taking creative license in this chapter; in HPB Harry, Hermione and Ron aren't taking Care of Magical Creatures anymore, but they are in this fic. Please don't kill me!

* * *

Chapter Two: Voco Geminus

Severus Snape was _not_ in a good mood this morning. On top of falling asleep in his clothes (something he _never_ did!), he was running late this morning (another thing he _never_ did), and woe be any mortal who dared cross his path! He irritably jerked the last button on his shirt into place and, avoiding the mirror per usual, he stormed out of his bedroom, face absolutely livid.

He stalked over to the sofa where he had left his black boots the previous night and crammed them on his feet. Just as he was about to rise from the couch, his eyes met the bookshelf, and last night's mysterious events flooded back to him in a deluge of memory. Frowning deeply at the offending bookshelf, Severus rose and perused it with a long slender finger, attempting to discover exactly how his copy of _One Thousand Curses and Counter Curses for the Advanced Wizard _had fallen from its place on the second top-most shelf. Clear examination said that it was impossible; the heavy tome was crammed neatly onto the shelf between its equally thick fellows.

The only logical conclusion was that someone had taken it off the shelf and dropped it in the floor. _But, I would have noticed a student entering my chambers…_Severus thought, his frown turning to a scowl as he thought more about the incident. Obviously it was some sort of prank; that he was sure of. Who the culprit was and how they managed to get by his anti-student wards was beyond him. Only another adult could have entered, and even then, none of the other teachers ever came to visit him. Not that he was complaining of course; he rather liked his solitude.

Shaking his head and vowing to slowly torture the perpetrator to death when he found him, Severus retrieved his cloak from his wardrobe (Why_ didn't I do that before? I am _really_ out of things this morning -)_ and exited his chambers. Making sure to reinstate the wards, he added another anti-student ward that would freeze any student caught trying to sneak in for good measure before walking briskly toward the Great Hall.

As he was ascending the staircase that connected the dungeons to the ground level, he saw two Hufflepuff students dash off to his left, clearly up to something. Smirking to himself and fully intending on taking out his foul mood on the unsuspecting pupils, Severus rounded the corner to find the two snogging heartily in a crevice, unaware to his presence as of yet.

"Well, well, well; what _do_ we have here?" he asked in his silkiest voice, striding purposefully toward the now frightened-looking students. "I do believe that public displays of affection are against school rules; am I correct?" Two pale faces stared back at him as his lip curled in a sneer. There was no need to ask, really; their guilty behaviour proved outright that they knew they were breaking school rules. "Detention, I think," he said smoothly, which earned looks of outrage from the two students. When they didn't leave immediately, he quirked a dark eyebrow at them and started to take away ten points from their House when a low, raspy voice interrupted his gleeful activity.

"Professor Snape, what are you – oh, I see." Severus heartily resisted the urge to hex Gershwin into next Wednesday as the man's face peered from behind the corner, his half-circle spectacles glinting strangely in the sunlight from a nearby window.

"He gave us detention, Professor Gershwin!" whined the boy, sidestepping Severus and approaching the new teacher, the girl close on his heels. "We were just…er…kissing…" At least he had the dignity to blush.

Gershwin raised an interested eyebrow at Severus and turned to confirm this story. "Really? That seems a bit harsh, doesn't it?" Severus noted with extreme distaste that the two students were now hiding behind the new professor, nodding vigorously at his words.

"Perhaps you are unaware of how things work here, but discipline and punishment are generally the methods used to correct improper behaviour," the Potions Master snarled, his previous anger from earlier that morning rising to dangerous new levels. "Or do you suggest candy and a pat on the back for a job well done of _breaking the rules_?"

Both students squeaked in terror at the expression on his face and opted to flee before things got nasty. Severus didn't even spare them a glance; Gershwin was now the centre of his attention, and that was _not_ a good thing for Gershwin.

"I am aware of the system used here," the other replied coolly, refusing to back down from the gaze that had sent many a student into fits of hysterics. "I was also under the assumption that punishment shall be restricted to the infraction committed, unless otherwise noted." At these words Gershwin's eyes flashed dangerously, and without further words exchanged between them, he turned on his heel and strode down the corridor.

By now he was absolutely furious. _Damn the bloody prick to Hell! _Severus swore to himself, flinging open the doors to the Great Hall, startling many students in the middle of breakfast as he made his dark way to the table, casting death glares at anyone unfortunate enough to catch his eye. When he reached his seat at the Head Table and slammed himself into his chair, none of the other teachers so much as glanced up from their eggs and bacon to take notice. They were far too used to his dark moods by now to worry about why he was so furious this early in the morning.

The dark man scowled down at the porridge he had unconsciously ladled into a bowl, picked up a spoon, and irritably swirled it around the bowl a few times before pushing it away and choosing eggs instead. Thoughts about strangling Gershwin with the man's own bloody cravat permeated his mind so much that when he glanced back at his plate, his eggs were nothing but a bleeding, yolky mess.

Deciding that he wasn't hungry, the Potions Master rose abruptly from his chair and stalked toward the exit, reaching it just as Gershwin entered from wherever he had gone off to minutes earlier. He practically jumped out of his shoes at the snarl Severus gave him in return for his cheery greeting.

Woe to the first years, who would suffer his wrath!

* * *

Hermione winced as the doors to the Great Hall slammed shut behind Professor Snape's retreating figure. He seemed awfully livid this morning. Her heart went out to poor Professor Gershwin, who appeared to have received the brunt end of her Potions Master's foul mood. He even jumped when Professor Sprout greeted him and practically fell out of his seat when Hagrid ambled into the Great Hall and took up a chair beside him. _Of course, it could just be that he's nervous by nature_, she mused, absently taking a bite of toast and washing it down with orange juice.

Five minutes later Professor McGonagall handed out the course schedules, and Hermione eagerly snatched hers and rapidly read off her schedule. "Oh, I _was_ hoping to have Arithmancy first thing today…" she wailed, noting that her favourite subject wasn't scheduled until after lunch.

"Cheer up, Hermione," said Harry as he, too, looked over his schedule. "We have Double Divination today after lunch; we'll suffer more than you. I just can't wait to see if we have another dud of a DADA teacher." His green eyes glanced at the head table where Professor Gershwin was currently sitting, nibbling at a piece of toast and casting nervous glances in Hagrid's direction. Hermione couldn't blame him, really; Hagrid was twice as tall as a normal man and three times as wide, and his great, untamed beard gave him a rabid appearance that would frighten anyone not quite used to his presence.

"Wuss, that one," said Ron dismissively, stuffing his course schedule into his bag and tipping a few more pieces of bacon onto his plate.

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed, scandalized that her best friend would dare insult a teacher in such a manner. The redhead shrugged and continued eating his breakfast, paying her angry glares no mind.

"Ron's right, Hermione," said Harry defensively, tucking in to more eggs. "He jumps every time someone says 'hi' to him." Ron snorted into his orange juice at this comment.

"Hey Harry! If he jumps when a _student_ says 'hi,' can you imagine his reaction if a _troll_ walked in here right now?" Both boys sniggered at Ron's joke.

"Oh, _honestly_!" Hermione cried, shoving her plate away from her and snatching her bag from the floor. "Can't you two _ever_ be serious?" Her two friends gave her innocent looks that she dismissed immediately. "While you two sit here and say horrible things about teachers that could land you in detention, _I'm_ going to Herbology." With that she left Ron and Harry, looking quite as if they expected this reaction, behind her as she strode to the doors, opened them, and left in a huff.

* * *

"She needs to lighten up, that one," Ron murmured to Harry as the two boys made their way to the Greenhouse 3. "I mean, it was just a joke."

Harry nodded in agreement. "Well, you know Hermione; she thinks teachers are like gods of Happy Learning Land or whatnot." Ron snickered genially at this comment and was still laughing to himself when they joined their slightly disgruntled friend at a table inside.

"It's about time you got here," Hermione hissed at them as they dropped their bags on the floor and sat down. "You were almost late!" Harry noticed that she had gotten out parchment, ink and a quill, which was most unusual for Herbology. Ron seemed to notice this too, and mentioned it to Hermione.

"In case you haven't noticed, we don't need that stuff in this class," he said with an air of someone talking to a small child. "I mean, all we ever do is get dragon dung fertilizer under our fingernails and end up smelling like the loo."

Hermione gave the redhead a withering glare. "_In case you haven't noticed_, **I** got here before **you**and heard Professor Sprout tell Justin Finch-Fletchy that we're taking notes today." Ron's ears turned red and he disappeared under the table, muttering to himself incoherently, reappearing a few moments later with quill, ink and parchment in hand.

Harry scowled with disgust as he fished his equipment out from his own bag. First class of the term and they had to take notes! In _Herbology_ no less! The bell rang as he dipped his quill in the ink and held it poised above a new piece of parchment.

A few moments after the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs settled themselves down, Professor Sprout, a short witch with flyaway grey hair, a patched hat and dirty fingernails, made her way to the front of the class (swatting the creeping vines of the venomous tentacula away from her hat as she strode past it). When she was sure that all the students were looking at her and paying close attention, she beamed at them all and began to speak.

"Welcome to sixth year Herbology! As many of you have undoubtedly noticed, we aren't doing any potting or planting today," she announced brightly to a chorus of unenthusiastic moans. This glum reception did not dampen her jovial spirits, however. "For the next few days, we'll be studying the various trees from which our wands are made from." She paused, beaming at the sudden interest the students showed at this announcement.

Suddenly, taking notes didn't seem all that miserable to Harry. He had been curious for some time about what trees wands were made from, and why certain trees were chosen above others. "After we learn about the various kinds, we'll look at different wands made from the different trees and plant a few saplings as well." Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught Ron surreptitiously examining his wand, running a finger along its length before stuffing it back into his pocket.

"All right then," Professor Sprout continued, I want you to make a list of all the types of trees wands can be made of. These are called "wand-trees," mind you." Here she paused to wait for students to dip their quills in ink and label the top of their parchments "Wand-Trees."

"Everyone ready?" she asked, and when everyone nodded, she began to recite the different trees wands could be made from. "Write these down now: alder, ash, beech, birch, cherry, elder, hawthorn, hazel, holly, hornbeam, ivy, mahogany, maple, oak, reed, rosewood, rowan, willow, vine wood, and yew." The scratching of quills filled the greenhouse as the students copied down the names of the wand-trees. Harry was mildly surprised at the amount of wand-trees there were; but then he supposed that everybody's wand couldn't be made of holly or willow. After scribbling "yew" underneath "vine wood," the Gryffindor sat up and gazed expectantly at the Head of Hufflepuff, waiting for information with more interest than he had shone in a long time in this class.

"Does everyone have them copied down?" Professor Sprout queried, allowing her gaze to fall upon each group of students and waiting for their affirmation. When all the pupils were ready, she continued the lesson. "Since alder is the first on our list, we'll be studying it first. Can anyone tell me one of the magical properties of alder?"

To no one's surprise Hermione's hand was the first to shoot up in the air, quivering slightly. Close behind her, however, was Neville, although he was a bit hesitant. Smiling at her best student, Professor Sprout called on the nervous Gryffindor to answer her question. "It…it's good for protection against drowning and death," he stated without so much as a hint of the fear he displayed in Potions. The boy's love for plants clearly showed in this class.

Professor Sprout beamed at him. "Well done! Five points to Gryffindor!" Harry flashed an encouraging smile at Neville, who returned it with a small grin of his own. "Does anyone else know any more?" the professor inquired needlessly, as Hermione's hand was still up and waving back and forth impatiently. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

"It's good at performing and shielding against death curses, as well as protecting against ill omens and improving wisdom," she recited, as usual sounding like she had swallowed a textbook. Professor Sprout awarded five more points to Gryffindor before going into an explanation about additional physical and magical properties of alder that lasted the remainder of the class.

Right before the bell rang to leave, she assigned an essay: "Describe, in detail, the physical and magical properties of alder. 12 inches of parchment, to be handed in on Thursday." She dismissed the students to break with a cheery farewell.

"I can't believe she assigned us a bloody essay on the first bloody day of term!" Ron fumed as they made their way to Hagrid's hut. "If I would have known she was going to do that…can I borrow your notes, Hermione?"

Hermione harrumphed irritably at this request. "Honestly, Ronald, do you _ever_ take notes?"

He shrugged. "Why should I, when I know you do and can borrow them?" he asked. Hermione snorted derisively.

"It would serve you right if I didn't let you borrow them, you know," she said rather testily as the trio came upon Hagrid's hut. "_Then_ you might be keener on taking notes yourself."

Again, Ron shrugged. "S'all right; I'll just borrow them from Harry. You'll let me borrow your notes, right mate?"

Harry hated to quash the hopeful look in his friend's eye, but felt his face flush slightly as he admitted his own folly. "I…er…didn't take notes either," he mumbled with embarrassment. Ron's face fell and Hermione threw up her hands in exasperation, ready to berate the two boys when the door to Hagrid's hut suddenly swung open, startling all three Gryffindors.

"Harry! Good ter see yeh!" the half-giant boomed, clapping a hand the size of a large trashcan lid on Harry's shoulder that would have sent the boy to his knees had he not been expecting the impact.

"Hey, Hagrid," he returned the greeting with a smile. Hagrid's beetle-black eyes crinkled, and despite the wild black beard covering his face, Harry knew that Hagrid was giving him a genial grin in return.

"All righ' Ron? Hermione?" The other two nodded happily, each enduring their own heavy shoulder pat in turn.

"So, Hagrid, what'll we be studying this year?" Ron asked with just a hint of trepidation. All three knew better than anyone else that their friend had a certain affinity for creatures normal people considered dangerous. In their first year, he had hatched a Norwegian Ridgeback, a fierce dragon, in his wooden hut before having to get rid of it. Nor could they forget about Fluffy, the giant three-headed dog that had been the first obstacle to retrieving the Philosopher's Stone.

With images of monsters like these dancing menacingly in his head, Harry waited with baited breath to hear what Hagrid had to say. Hagrid, however, tapped his nose and gave them a mischievous grin. "I'll not be tellin' yeh 'til class starts," he said excitedly, lumbering off behind his hut, most likely to put the finishing touches on the lesson. Harry shared a pointed look with Ron and Hermione. Judging by Hagrid's reaction, the magical creature they were going to study was probably big, mean and ugly.

"Oh, _please_ don't tell me that oaf is still teaching this class!" a snobbish voice exclaimed with mock horror. The Gryffindor trio turned and noticed, to their mutual disgust, that Draco Malfoy and the other sixth year Slytherins were making their way to Hagrid's hut.

"Damn; I was hoping they'd drop Care of Magical Creatures this year and leave poor Hagrid alone!" Ron murmured sourly as the other students gathered next to the wooden hut.

"Well, well, well," drawled the white-blond boy, "if it isn't Potty, Weasel and their Mudblood friend Granger." Harry had to snatch the back of Ron's robes (which wasn't easy, as the other boy was substantially taller than he was) and hold him back from tackling Malfoy.

"Ignore them, Ron," Hermione said stiffly, turning her back on the gang of Slytherins as Hagrid reappeared from wherever he had gone, beaming at the students and noticing nothing wrong.

"All righ' sixth years!" he boomed, his deep voice practically quivering in excitement. "Got a real treat fer you lot terday!" He beckoned his class forward with his great hands, grinning like a child in Honeyduke's. The students, used to Hagrid's fascination with beasts, exchanged nervous looks and slowly followed their teacher to the back of the hut, where they were met with quite a surprise.

What looked like six, blackish-green vultures sat on perches in a barred cage large enough for Hagrid to walk into, cawing mournfully and looking at the pupils below with sad black eyes. Harry fleetingly wondered if they did something dangerous like blow fire or spit poison when Hermione let out a noise of excitement.

"I know what those are!" she said, eyes shining as they gazed up at the birds in the cage.

"They don't eat people do they?" Ron asked with a gulp and wary look in the birds' direction.

"Of course not; they're auguries!" Hermione snapped impatiently, gazing raptly at the magical creatures as though delighted that they weren't something akin to dragons or the infamous Blast-Ended Skrewts.

The confused glance Ron flashed him let Harry know that he wasn't the only one without a clue as to what an augurey was supposed to be.

"Ain't they beau'ful?" Hagrid boomed after the initial shock of seeing something apparently normal had worn off the students. "Now, can anyone tell me what they are?"

Before he had even finished speaking, Hermione's hand was in the air. "They're auguries, also known as Irish phoenixes," she said breathlessly.

Hagrid beamed down at her. "Very good, Hermione! Five poin's ter Gryffindor!" Behind him, Harry heard Malfoy snort and mutter something about "lousy know-it-all's" but didn't pay the Slytherin any attention; the lesson, he had to admit, was quite interesting.

"As Hermione jus' told us, an augurey is an Irish phoenix, native to our country. They usually live in nes's made o' brambles and thorn's, auguries, but I managed ter get a hold o' six o' the beasts fer our lesson today," Hagrid continued. He then stepped inside the cage, causing the phoenixes to stir, and managed to pluck one from its perch before it flew out of his reach.

With the bird's taloned feet safely ensconced in his giant paw of a hand, Hagrid returned to the students and resumed his lecture. "Auguries like heavy rain, so when it's rainin' yer likely ter see 'em flyin' around' and stuff," he said, patting the bird on its head and eliciting a soft caw. "Wha's really in'erestin' about auguries is tha' their feathers repel ink, so they make good quills; _if_ yeh can manage ter get one, mind.

"Back in the day, people used to think that their cries were death omens; bu' now we know that their cries foretell rainy weather." Looking at the thin, mournful-looking bird, Harry could see where ancient wizards got that idea from. It didn't look like it would be the herald of anything happy, that was for sure.

"Oh, an' one more thing: they like ter eat insec's and fairies, auguries. So I wan' you lot to spli' up in six groups, and one of yeh come and get some dead crickets to feed 'em with. Off yer go," Hagrid said, and then strode over to Harry, passing him the large bird and telling him to let it sit on his forearm. It was lighter than it looked, but it stunk and nipped at his hair. When Neville, who had joined their group, tried to feed it some dead crickets, it bit his finger.

"Ow!" the boy cried out, flinging the rest of the crickets out of his hand and managing to land them in Hermione's hair, who shrieked and did a sort of weird dance as she attempted to dislodge them. The Slytherins found this all rather amusing.

"Hey Granger, you should leave those bugs in your hair; they make it look better than it normally does!" Pansy Parkinson, a pug-like girl who was constantly attached to Draco's arm, called shrilly as Hermione flicked the last cricket from her brown locks. Ron had his wand half-way out of his pocket to hex the girl before Harry could grab his arm and jerk him away from the laughing Snakes.

They spent the rest of the class trading the group's augurey around so everyone got to hold it. The definite highlight of the period was Draco's augurey letting one out on the arrogant boy's robes, leaving a sick-looking white and black mess on what appeared to be fine black velvet. Ron was still doubled over laughing when the bell rang to end the lesson and the students made their way to the Great Hall for lunch.

"Did you see the look on his stupid face?" the redhead exclaimed for the tenth time as he generously tipped fried chicken and mashed potatoes onto his plate and tucked in eagerly.

"Yes, Ron," Hermione replied in a bored voice, giving her friend a disgusted look as he laughed and sent little bits of chicken spewing out onto the table. She waved her wand and the stray chunks disappeared.

Harry opted to ignore this as he shovelled food into his mouth; he didn't realise how hungry he was until he'd sat down and smelled the delicious scent of Hogwarts fried chicken. As he was eating, Neville, who was sitting across from him, began a conversation with George Anderson, the first new Gryffindor to be sorted into the House of the Lion last night. Since they were so close to Harry and not bothering to speak quietly, Harry couldn't really help but eavesdrop.

"H-he was r-really angry this m-morning," George Anderson stuttered, taking a large swig of pumpkin juice to calm himself down. "I d-don't know why, though; it's n-not like I did anything to make him m-mad." Harry, unaware that he had stopped chewing his lunch, strained his ears to listen closer and risked a glance to see Neville put a reassuring hand on the younger boy's shoulder.

"It's all right," Neville said soothingly. "Professor Snape doesn't like anyone, and he's never nice at all, except to his Slytherins." Harry snorted and began chewing once again. **That** was an understatement! Neville seemed to have heard him, for he looked in Harry's direction and smiled.

"You can even ask Harry. Snape hates him more than he hates me, and that's really saying something." George Anderson gaped openly at Harry, his eyes making the familiar climb to the scar on Harry's forehead and becoming significantly rounder when they saw it. Harry suppressed a sigh and turned back to his green beans.

Dean Thomas, one of Harry's dorm mates, appeared to have been listening in on the conversation as well. "I heard from Justin Finch-Fletchley that Snape caught Ernie Macmillan snogging Megan Jones, and when he tried to give them detention, that new teacher Gershwin got them off the hook and made Snape really angry," he interjected. By now all the Gryffindors around Neville – including Ron and Hermione – were listening to the conversation.

"Really?" asked Seamus, another of Harry's dorm mates. The Irish boy cast a quick glance at the staff table. "He looks like a puffskein would scare the wits out of him. Definitely Snape fodder." Seamus nodded to himself as if this decided everything. Hermione sniffed disdainfully, but no one paid attention to her.

"Maybe someone should tell him not to mess with Snape," Ginny Weasley, who had left a group of fifth years to join the conversation, suggested. "He looks so sweet, like he wouldn't hurt a fly…"

Ron choked on his pumpkin juice at this comment from his little sister. "Ginny!" he gasped, "_please_ don't tell me you **fancy** that Gershwin bloke!"

Ginny regarded her older brother coolly. "Of course I don't," she snapped, picking up her plate and scooting back down the table with the other fifth years.

"Good," Ron mumbled to himself more than anyone, "'cause that would have been bloody awkward…" Harry quickly stuffed a mouthful of mashed potatoes into his mouth to keep from snickering.

* * *

After they had eaten lunch, Harry and Ron bid farewell to Hermione as she left for Arithmancy and the two boys ascended the staircases to North Tower for double Divination. "I wonder what nonsense the old bat will have us learning this year," Ron mused as they stood at the bottom of the trap door, waiting for the silvery rope to descend from above so they could enter the classroom. Not that Harry was particularly impatient to begin the lesson, however; the incense Trelawney burned, the heavily perfumed fire and the stifling heat made Divination class the torture of the day.

The bell rang for class to begin, and for a split second Harry hoped that somehow Trelawney wasn't there. His wishes were crushed when the silvery rope fluttered down among the Gryffindor students, and with a sigh Harry grabbed hold of it and pulled himself up into the classroom.

It was, unfortunately, as he remembered it, stinking perfume and unbearable heat wafting around a room where poufs and chintz armchairs sat gathered around small circular tables. Harry plopped unceremoniously onto a squashy pouf, and when Ron joined him, the two boys shared longsuffering glances. Ever since third year, this had been their least favourite class. Trelawney constantly predicting Harry's premature demise only made it worse, and the only fun thing about it was making up the homework in the common room after dinner.

"Settle down, children, settle down…" said a dreamy voice from the vicinity of the fireplace. What resembled a huge insect suddenly became visible among the clouds of smoke from the incense. Trelawney, too, was just has Harry remembered her. A skinny woman draped in a shawl and covered with glittering necklaces and bracelets, her huge glasses gave her the appearance of a rather large and odd-looking praying mantis.

"This term, we shall be studying the ancient art of tarot reading," Trelawney continued, gliding among the tables looking very much like a bug hunting its next meal. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who both put much stock in Trelawney, gazed with rapt attention at the professor as she moved about the classroom. "You will divide into pairs and I will supply you with a tarot deck. I want you to follow the instructions in you books for the "Three Month Spread" and read each other's fortunes. Be sure to copy everything down and turn it in at the end of the class." With this said, she began to pass around tarot decks to the students (who had already divided into pairs by habit) while they took their copies of _Ancient Arts of Divination_ by Apollo Delphi from their book bags.

"How much do you want to bet that I get something like the Grim?" Harry asked snidely as he opened his book to the first page, entitled _How to Arrange a Tarot Deck to Tell Fortunes_.

"More gold than I've got at the moment," Ron replied with a derisive snicker. The two boys sobered up as Trelawney gave them a tarot deck, but Harry couldn't help but scowl at the mournful look the woman gave him as she passed by.

"If she wore enough green, she'd look like one of those Irish whatsits Hagrid taught us about this morning," Ron whispered, causing his friend to clap both hands over his mouth to contain his laughter.

"Please get to work," came Trelawney's voice, slightly muffled by the thick cloud of incense and perfume permeating the classroom. Casting amused glances between themselves, Harry glanced down at his book and read the short description on how to arrange a "Three Month Spread" tarot reading.

_9  
78  
456  
23  
1 _

Shuffle and cut as you want. When ready to layout the spread, lay One as the first card placed and end with Nine as the last placed.

Position 1: Past

Positions 2 and 3: Current, the Present.

Positions 4, 5, and 6: Up to One Month from the date of the reading. Should apply between weeks 1 through 4.

Positions 7 and 8: Up to Two Months from the date of the reading.  
Should apply between weeks 5 through 8.

Position 9: Up to Three Months Out. Should apply between weeks 9 through 12.

"I'll be damned if this makes any sense," Harry muttered darkly, shuffled the deck anyway and placed the cards the way the book directed. Flipping a few pages further, Ron came upon the meanings of the various cards and flipped over Harry's first card.

"Okay, so this describes your past…let's see, you've got the Emperor," he said slowly, running a finger down the page to find the meaning. "All right, here it is…_the Emperor is a card filled with enthusiasm, energy, and aggression. In the best of circumstances, he signifies the leader that everyone wants to follow. _Er…I guess that's they way you were in your past?" Harry met Ron's questioning gaze with an equally confused one of his own. Ron shrugged and told Harry to flip over the next two cards, which Harry did.

"All right, these are the present. You've got the Hierophant in Number Two…according to this you're good at solving problems, but you can be stubborn…I guess that describes you…and your second one in Number Three is the Chariot, which means – " here he paused to turn the page and find the information for Chariot – "that you're in the middle of a struggle…obviously…"

It was rather difficult to concentrate on the hazy meanings the cards supposedly held what with the heat and bloody incense wafting around. Harry only registered a few of his other cards from the reading ("You've got the High Priestess in your Number Five slot…that means you'll learn something strange…and the World is your last card, meaning that a difficult struggle will come to an end…good, maybe You-Know-Who will blow himself up or whatnot…") before sinking into a stupor.

Professor Trelawney seemed displeased that Harry hadn't drawn anything to do with death or suffering, but seemed to make up for it by assigning them extra homework and loaning them a tarot deck to complete Ron's tarot reading (as they hadn't gotten around to it during class). "I'll see you again on Wednesday, my dears…" her dreamy voice floated after them as the bell rang and the Gryffindors gratefully descended the silvery ladder to dinner.

"Barmy, that one," Ron said as he and Harry eagerly made their way to the Great Hall. "I'll tell you what; how about we make up my tarot reading tonight instead of actually doing it, eh mate?"

"Sounds good," Harry said, barely stifling a yawn. She really needed to ditch that incense and allow good, clean air into the classroom every once in a while.

They found Hermione already seated on a bench in the Great Hall, nose buried in a book and a piece of parchment covered in numbers sitting on the table next to her untouched plate. Curious, Harry sat down next to her and attempted to get a closer look at what she had written down, but Hermione made a noise of irritation and moved it away from him. Shrugging, Harry plopped his book bag on the floor in front of him and tucked in to a thick slice of steak. Apparently she didn't want to be bothered at the moment.

Ron, however, didn't notice this or blatantly ignored it as he sat down and snatched the parchment away from Hermione. "What's all this about?" he asked, pointedly avoiding the dark scowl Hermione threw at him for stealing her work.

She nimbly snatched it out of his grasp and tucked it between the pages of the book she had been reading earlier. "None of your business," she replied more acerbically than usual. Ron's eyebrows practically shot into his hairline at this rather cold remark.

"You're certainly in a right state tonight," he said, piling some carrots onto his plate and taking a bite. "What's the matter?"

"_Nothing!_" Hermione insisted, but then sighed and laid her chin on her hands. "Oh, all right, there _is_ something wrong." She paused here, donning a very thoughtful expression on her face.

"Well, are you going to tell us or stare at your pumpkin juice all night?" Ron prodded when she didn't say anything else, earning another glare from their bookworm-ish friend.

"Professor Vector taught us how to write equations to predict the future by assigning certain people and events as values," she explained. Ron, who clearly didn't understand, opened his mouth to say so, but Hermione rode right over his inquiry. "Well, as I was doing mine, something…_weird_…came up."

Harry, his curiosity now thoroughly piqued, forgot all about his half-eaten steak and leaned in closer to Hermione. "What was it? What was this weird thing that came up in your equation?" he asked.

Hermione made a frustrated sound in her throat and frowned darkly. "That's just it; I don't know what it is! I plugged you two, and myself of course, into the equations…and all the teachers; Professor Vector said that's crucial if you want an accurate prediction on how school might turn out…and then, the _weird_ thing came up!" Her frown deepened as she stared at the flagon of pumpkin juice. "I asked Professor Vector about it, and she seemed really alarmed after she looked over my work. She didn't say anything outright, but I got the feeling that something…well, _bad _is going to happen this year."

This dire announcement was met with silence for a few moments before Ron interrupted it with a snorting chuckle. Startled, Hermione gazed at him and asked him what he thought was so funny about her equation's prediction. "Well it's obvious, isn't it?" the redhead asked through a mouthful of baked potato (Hermione's nose wrinkled in disgust at this lack of proper manners).

"_What_ is obvious, Ronald?" she asked, perplexed at his behaviour.

When he had swallowed, Ron said, "It's obvious that something bad is going to happen, because something bad **always** happens when Harry's here and You-Know-Who is still out there!" Harry thought his friend had made a fairly good point, but he didn't venture to voice his opinion as he noticed that Hermione had gone from frustrated to absolutely livid.

"Don't you _ever_ look at things _beyond_ what's obvious?" she exclaimed, snatching her book bag from its place on the floor and storming out of the Great Hall, leaving her dinner not even half-eaten.

Harry and Ron exchanged shocked looks, and some students from Hufflepuff even glanced accusingly in their direction. Ears turning slightly red, Ron gazed uncomfortably at his carrots and steak, pushing the vegetables around with his fork. "Was it something I said?"

Harry, who believed that he would never quite understand girls, just shrugged.

* * *

It was now or never, he decided as Hermione left the Hall in a slight rage. Making sure that the students in the Great Hall were focused on either their dinners or her egress, the man surreptitiously slipped his wand from his teacher's robes and held it in his lap. "_Voco geminus_," he whispered, barely moving his lips at all. A strange feeling came over him, as if he were being split in two, and yet still completely whole.

"Are you all right, Theodore?" a concerned voice asked to his right. Watery blue eyes snapped open and glanced at Pomona Sprout, who was gazing at him with a worried gleam in her eyes.

He managed to plaster a cheerful smile on his face and slip the wand back into his robe without her noticing. "Of course," he replied, showing his teeth in what he hoped was a reassuring grin instead of a grimace of irritation. She seemed to buy into it, however, and with a silent sigh of relief, Theodore Gershwin turned back to picking at his meal.

It was only a matter of time, now.

* * *

No matter how many times he rubbed his temples, the blasted headache refused to go away. He thought about taking a potion for it, but quickly decided against it. He had been taking far too many as of late, and getting addicted to those was not a pleasant experience. Maybe a shot of Firewhiskey…no, that would only make it worse.

Sighing, Severus Snape leaned back in his chair, shoving the box of student-made potions away from him and closing his eyes in exasperation. Bloody first years. Whoever had decided that eleven years old was the minimum age requirement for acceptance to Hogwarts ought to be hexed into Kingdom Come. Hardly any of them understood what they were doing, and fewer still actually appreciated the precise, subtle art that was potion making…

Deciding that grading the first years' potions could wait until the morning, Severus stood up, stretching the kinks out of his back and gathering all the flasks into a large box, where he deposited them in his office. Locking the door with an especially strong charm (too many students had snuck into his office in the past years, although he failed to see why), he wrapped his cloak around himself more tightly and headed for his chambers.

Although it was approaching autumn, the castle was still drafty and the dungeons were rather chill at night. When he finally came to his chamber door, he noticed right away that someone had dissolved his wards. Frowning, Severus removed his wand from the inside of his cloak and held it to the ready, slowly pushing open the door and peering inside around the edge of it.

It was just as it should have been: dark. "_Lumos_," he whispered, and a brilliant light appeared at the tip of his wand. What the light illuminated was exactly as he had left it earlier that morning; nothing was out of place at all. Frowning even deeper, Severus slowly entered his chamber, wary for any sign of movement. It took a strong witch or wizard to break through his wards; that, or powerful Dark magic.

The Potions Master made a slow circuit about the living room, checking every nook and cranny big enough to hide an adult wizard in (there was no way a student had gotten in here this time). Satisfied that there was no one hiding in there, although uneasy at not being attacked by the trespasser, Severus moved to illuminate the bedroom next.

As the second biggest room in his apartment, and containing both a bed and wardrobe – ideal hiding spots if there ever were any –, the dark-haired man was extra cautious as he stepped inside. The blankets were made, courtesy of the house elves, and a quick search of the wardrobe revealed that his many black robes, coats and trousers had not been wrinkled or scrunched by someone hiding in the wardrobe.

Thoroughly unsettled, Severus turned his wand in the direction of the bathroom, the last place anyone hiding in his apartment could possibly conceal themselves. Of course, the perpetrator could very likely be gone already, but that thought never crossed his mind as he crept slowly to the bathroom. Taking a deep breath and feeling utterly foolish, Severus leapt into the bathroom with a shout, flinging aside the shower curtain and stuffing his wand underneath the sink to check for trespassers hiding underneath. Nothing but the loo greeted his unceremonious entrance.

Squatting motionless on the bathroom floor, the Hogwarts Potion Master rubbed his temples in supreme irritation. All of that sneaking around – and in his own chambers! – had revealed nothing. Not a single, solitary, _bloody thing_. Growling angrily to himself, he decided that there was nothing for it but to retire early and get a decent night's sleep.

As he rose from the ground, his frustrated growling died in his throat and his face drained of the little colour it had.

There in the mirror stood a figure shrouded in shadow, holding a wand that pointed squarely at the small of his back.

"Gershwin?"

A/N: Sorry this was such a long chapter, but plot development had to happen at some point…Next chapter, the action begins! Dun dun dun!

I'd also like to thank Harry Potter Lexicon for most of the information used in this chapter; it's a great web site full of all stuff Harry Potter. Check it out some time if you like.

Thanks once again for those who reviewed! Please take the time to review once more!

Cheers,

Ballad


	3. 3: Blood and Bone

Erroris of Vestri Mores

By Shadow Ballad

A/N: Once again, thanks to those who reviewed; love ya so much! For those who haven't…please review? This chapter will take full advantage of the rating…thus far nothing really merits the T rating the story has, but that all changes here. It's pretty violent and graphic, so if you don't like bloody, don't read. Hope you like. Anyway, on to chapter 3!

* * *

Chapter Three: Blood and Bone

It was indeed Theodore Gershwin holding him at wand point in his own bathroom. Had Severus not been so incredibly furious and startled, he might have found the situation faintly amusing. Given the circumstances, however, it was the last thing on his mind.

"What the bloody hell are you _doing_ in here?" he exclaimed in outrage, attempting to keep a slight tremor out of his voice as he gazed at the image in the mirror. The intruder said nothing, merely gazing back at the Potions Master with an expressionless mask.

Severus turned sharply on his heel to face Gershwin, his wand in hand and ready to curse him if he so much as blinked. That, however, did not seem likely, as the other's eyes seemed oddly dead and void of life. He opened his mouth to hex Gershwin anyway, but was beaten to the task as the mousy-haired man stated emotionlessly, "_Expelliarmus_." Severus's wand popped out of his hand and went neatly into Gershwin's extended left. Mouth working furiously at having been so easily disarmed, the man in black decided that there was nothing for it but to attack with flying fists.

Just as Gershwin opened his mouth – probably to hex Severus – the professor charged at him, knocking Gershwin over in a perfect rugby tackle and sending both men sprawling into the bedroom. Gershwin clawed savagely at Severus's face, tearing at the pale skin with his fingernails. Severus responded by dousing the man in a vicious storm of punches and kicks, not caring where his attacks landed as long as they caused Gershwin severe pain. A loud CRACK interrupted the hisses and gasps of the fight as a well-aimed fist smashed Gershwin's nose, spattering both opponents in hot, sticky blood.

As though impervious to pain, Severus's opponent launched himself from the floor, ramming his elbow into Snape's ribs. A sharp pain like a thousand knives ripped through the professor's side. In just the one moment it took for Severus to gasp in shock, Gershwin was on top of him, pounding his fists into the dark man's face and kicking and kneeing him in the stomach.

"You bastard!" Severus choked out, noticing with slight trepidation the blood colouring his lips. As though one rib hadn't been bruised and his face wasn't a bloody mass of cut flesh, the Potions Master delivered a sharp uppercut that sent Gershwin into a table. His head struck the edge nastily, leaving a gory wound near his temple and spattering the stone floor with a spray of blood.

Swift as lightning Gershwin returned the favour. Severus managed to feel slightly incredulous before a booted foot forcefully connected with his groin. Gasping as white-hot pain coursed through his body, the Potions Master fell to the ground in time for Gershwin to kick him in the chest.

Coughing and spluttering, Severus landed harshly on his back, his head smashing into the stone, stunning him. He could feel the wet trickle as blood oozed around him, but another bone-grinding pain of several broken ribs kept him from focusing on the wound. Gershwin seemed to have decided that Severus was not hurt enough and took it on himself to kick the downed man's ribs as if he was a football.

Severus desperately tried to ignore the metallic taste of blood on his tongue and focus on beating off Gershwin, but his body could no longer accept the abuse. His knees buckled as he attempted to stand up, sending him sprawling to the floor. His forehead bounced painfully as it met with the stone, but that was the least of his problems. A large hand knotted an excruciating grip in his hair, jerking his head up roughly to meet a bloodied fist. Head and hand collided in a spectacular burst of agony and blood.

The professor, now only half-conscious, reached out with a slender hand to ward of the attacks, but the gesture was returned in the form of a thick black boot crushing down on his hand, breaking the delicate fingers and snapping the thin wrist. Severus howled in agony, writhing in the plentiful blood carpeting the floor stones, his vision blurred by severe and unrelenting pain. So deep was his anguish that he failed to notice Gershwin approach him from the left, wand back in his hand.

Muttering an incomprehensible spell in a voice that resembled bone rubbing against bone, Gershwin aimed his wand at the incapacitated Potions Master. Severus saw a flash of dark gold light through the curtain of blood staining his eyes before pain the like he had never felt before came swiftly upon him. One by one he felt the tendons in his shoulders snap, the muscles strain and the bone grind against its socket. Screams of absolute torture ripped from Severus's throat until it was raw as both shoulders simultaneously dislocated themselves, snapping more tendons throughout the process.

Tears of pain leaked out of the black eyes as the professor was lifted from the ground and hung by his wrists from the ceiling. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to lift his head to catch a glimpse of Gershwin. To Severus's disgust, the man stood calmly a meter or so away from his hanging body, blood coating his face and clothes in a crimson scab. Unable to bear the emotionless face staring down at him and the pain it caused, Severus allowed his chin to fall to his chest.

In one swift movement Gershwin had the professor's chin in his hand, forcing the injured man's head back and conjuring a chain and collar to clasp around Severus's neck. Knives of sharp pain shot down his spine, but nothing the Potions Master did lessened the agony.

Black eyes regarded Gershwin, who rubbed a finger along his chin thoughtfully for a few moments as if deciding his next torturous act. A second later he jerked his wand violently, and on top of the bloody gashes, Severus felt the chill night air assailing his skin. He risked a glance down to see his bare, slender chest, purple where the ribs had been broken. More fear than he cared to admit he possessed erupted from the pit of his stomach, clenching his heart and throwing him into a fit of nausea.

Bile stung the back of Severus's throat, but becoming violently ill all over himself drew a sudden second in pressing quandaries as the word "_Diffindo!_" reached his ears. He had time only to tense his battered muscles before the spell hit.

Waves upon waves of pure agony engulfed the captive professor. He could feel his flesh ripping asunder, bone splintering as it broke and blood running in boiling torrents down his body. His entire torso was stained red by the time Gershwin ended the curse, casting another so that the blood coagulated on his body and encased him completely in a sticky crimson shell.

"Why…?" Severus choked in a broken voice as he hovered between painful consciousness and the blessed relief of darkness.

His attacker merely gazed down at him, showing no emotion on the bloodstained face. Finally, in a voice colder than winter's heart, he said, "To show you the error of your ways." The dead blue eyes bored into him, as though their very gaze could inflict more pain upon the already wrecked body before them. A moment's pause, and he continued. "The Dark Lord is not pleased with you, Snape. You'll remember nothing of me but this warning: return in full loyalty, or return not at all. Death is too good for traitors."

Severus fought to remain conscious, wondering exactly who Gershwin truly was beneath his guise of Defense teacher. "You…bloody…_bastard_," he rasped with all the strength remaining within him, filling each syllable with pure venom and utmost loathing.

Gershwin didn't blink or respond, except to raise his wand and mutter, "_Obliviate_."

All memory of Gershwin's role in his predicament vanished from Severus's mind. Before he could look up and see the man standing in his chambers, the overwhelming agony became too great for him to bear, and he slipped into the blessed darkness, welcoming it with open arms.

* * *

A/N: Since the two previous chapters were so long, I decided to write a really short one and see what you guys prefer. I also thought that the material should stand alone in its own chapter, as it is the first real step into the story.

BTW, I love Severus, just so you know. Why did I hurt him so badly, you ask? We seem to hurt the ones we love, I answer…and it makes for some damn good angst!

Please tell me what you thought, and let me know if you like short or long chapters better.

Thanks for reading (and reviewing, please)!

Cheers,

Ballad


	4. 4: Into the Abyss

Erroris of Vestri Mores

By Shadow Ballad

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, Barb8, AngelaDanton, and Dragonero! If you reviewed after I wrote this, well, sorry I couldn't include you! Youthree are great…and very perceptive. And you both asked for longer chapters, so here you go!

* * *

Chapter Four: Into the Abyss 

"Hermione, you're going to be late for breakfast!" a voice shouted, ousting Hermione Granger from her deep contemplations. Shifting parchment covered in equations aside, she scooted to the edge of her four-poster bed and snatched the scarlet bathrobe hanging next to her bed, throwing it on over her dressing gown. Peevishly she walked to the dormitory door, opened it a sliver, and glared down into the common room.

At the foot of the stairs to the sixth-year girls' dormitory stood Ron and Harry, fidgeting about as all boys at their age were prone to doing. They both knew better than to try and get inside the dormitory, but Hermione was irked enough to try casting Imperio and making them do it just to see them fall. Maybe a good laugh would lighten her mood.

"I don't care, Ronald!" she called down frostily. "Food isn't important to me at the moment when there are bigger things about to happen!" Before she slammed the door, she caught sight of the surprised looks her friends were giving her. Allowing the heavy door to smash shut, she gave an internal sigh and turned back to the work spread across her bed. Honestly; did all boys think about nothing but _food_?

Her stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly in protest. Already in a foul mood do to lack of sleep and high anxiety levels, this served to only anger Hermione further. Cursing the traitorous organ (and feeling quite stupid afterwards; after all, it _was_ inanimate), the bright young woman gathered her parchments together. _I'll look at them as I'm walking to the Great Hall; that way, not one solitary minute of my time shall be wasted_.

After gathering her uniform from the neat, organized chest at the foot of her bed, Hermione dressed quickly and left the dormitory, parchments clutched protectively to her chest. A few first-years a little slow on the uptake of Hogwarts life cornered her to ask for directions to the Great Hall, and after indulging them, Hermione felt strangely calmer. Perhaps helping people was the solution to her current state. Yes, _that_ was it.

"But then, I'll need to help someone out **a lot** to feel perfectly fine," she grumbled to herself moodily, shifting the parchments and glancing at them absently as she strolled down the hallways.

She noticed it just after passing Flitwick's office.

The equations had changed.

Stopping dead in her tracks, her heart pounding against her suddenly constricted chest, Hermione ran a finger along the equations. _Please…oh, please NO…_ Brown eyes widened in horror at what the parchment revealed.

Whatever horrible thing the equations had predicted the night before had suddenly come to pass.

Quickly releasing a breath she didn't realize she'd taken, Hermione darted away from Flitwick's office with alacrity that would have dazed a Muggle track coach. She ceased to see people in her way, barreling past them without so much as her usual apology. Only one thing crossed her mind.

Professor Vector must be told. _Immediately_.

So engrossed was she in studying the parchment, hoping against hope that the equations were lying, that she didn't notice which corridor she had flown down. The mural on the wall depicted Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls to dance the ballet. This bit of information, however, was never noted as something else had just caught the young witch's attention.

One of the lines her magical equations had conjured was directly linked to Professor Snape.

He was a part of this disaster.

Skidding to a sudden halt, Hermione perused her work again, frantically connecting equations to lines and people. Her heart was hammering somewhere near her throat as the severity of the situation came tumbling upon her in a wave of grave realization. She had to find Professor Snape, now – or what, she didn't know. Whatever it was, the alternative was horrible.

Hermione spun rapidly on her heels, taking a dozen steps in the opposite direction before coming to a sudden stop once again. Shouldn't Professor Vector be told first? After all, what if Hermione was wrong and she had somehow misunderstood the equations' meaning? A small voice at the back of her head furiously told her that this couldn't be a possibility, but she didn't fancy bursting down into the dungeons, running into a well and healthy Professor Snape and losing five hundred points from Gryffindor the second day of term, either.

What to do?

_Help him, you silly nit_, the voice in her head cried out shrilly, _what if he's in trouble_? This intimate conversation with herself instantly decided Hermione's course of action. Turning the other direction toward the dungeons, she only got another dozen steps before another dire thought crashed into her mind: _What if she was too late_? What if whatever had happened to Professor Snape was potentially fatal, and was eating away at his life as she stood here dithering? She was the only one who knew anything was wrong, for Merlin's sake! What she **really** needed was a shortcut to the dungeons.

It was at this moment that the brilliant witch suddenly noticed her surroundings. A tapestry showing Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls to dance the ballet, and failing horribly. She knew this corridor.

It held the Room of Requirement.

Without giving the situation further thought Hermione frantically walked briskly three times in front of what appeared to be bare wall. Her thoughts focused on a shortcut to the dungeons, any at all would do. The third time a door appeared, and with a cry of mixed anxiety and excitement Hermione darted inside.

The Room today was small and made entirely of stone. It also happened to be entirely empty, save for a descending staircase in the centre of the room. Whipping out her wand, Hermione muttered "_Lumos_!" and mounted the staircase, perched on the top stair and gazing down into utter darkness.

A deluge of uncertainty threatened to drown the would-be rescuer as she gazed down into complete darkness. Her feeble wand-light hardly did anything to light the way down the dank passageway. She was on the seventh floor…it would be a long walk to the dungeons; what if she tripped and fell the entire way down? Hermione shuddered at the thought. What she **really** needed was a slide.

On cue, the staircase suddenly was no more, and a pleasant slide one would find in a Muggle children's park took its place. Relief flooded Hermione's veins, and without further adieu she swung her legs onto the slide and gave a mighty shove into the tunnel.

Two seconds later, she desperately wished she had taken the stairs.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaa!" she shrieked at the top of her voice, holding her parchments in a vice-like grip as icy wind clawed at her hair and stung her face. The slide absolutely refused to be anything resembling normal! It twisted and turned, had large bumps that sent her flying, and would shoot what seemed straight down all in a matter of seconds.

What seemed like hours of this terrifying ride later, Hermione suddenly became intimately acquainted with a hard, dank stone floor. She yelped as her elbow came in sharp contact with a wall, scraping the skin raw and leaving an ugly red mark on her arm. She slowly got to her feet, her legs as wobbly as if she had just been put under the Jelly-Legs Jinx. "_Nox_," she muttered after steadying herself, tucking her wand into a robe pocket. Taking another glance at her Arithmancy equations – they hadn't changed one number, she noted unhappily – she gathered her patent Gryffindor courage and charged out of the small area she had landed in and out into what she could only assume were the dungeons.

_What a horrid place for a common room_, she thought as she ran through the corridors, desperately looking for something that resembled Professor Snape's chambers. With accommodations like these, no wonder the Slytherins were a cranky lot! Hermione scampered up the corridor, oblivious to many pairs of eyes watching her from a sliver in the wall.

By now Hermione was wringing her hands in frustration, having not come upon a single door along the entire corridor. She tried to push down thoughts of Professor Snape lying mortally injured somewhere she could never access, but they kept popping up every second.

_Why are you doing this? _a little voice in the back of her head unexpectedly asked as she continued her search. _After all, he never gives you the points you deserve to earn in class, and he's always so mean to Harry…_

Feverishly Hermione squashed these thoughts down, bludgeoning them with a retort of her own: _He's a _teacher, _not a monster! Even he needs help sometimes!_ Never once, due to her concern for a teacher, did Hermione stop and wonder how very peculiar it was to hold a conversation with oneself.

As a matter of fact, she only stopped because she suddenly ran into something very solid and landed smartly on her bum, a small ache beginning to pound in her arms where she had collided with the object.

That object, it turned out, was a stone wall, and next to her right hand was a slightly opened door engraved with the Crest of Slytherin House. This, she decided, _must_ be Professor Snape's quarters. She picked herself up from the floor, and after a moment's hesitation – these **were** a professor's private chambers, after all! – she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He eyes were met with total blackness accentuated only by the torchlight let in by the open door. A harsh, fetid odor assailed her nostrils at another step, causing her to double over gagging. Something was definitely wrong here.

"P-professor Snape?" she called out in a tiny, hesitant voice, absently setting her parchments down on a small end table and taking another step into the room. No dry, scathing remark answered her, nor came there a furious reprimand for entering a teacher's private chambers unbidden.

In fact, there was no sound at all.

Now feeling supremely uneasy, Hermione slowly made her way into what she soon discovered was the living room. Her eyes caught sight of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase crammed with fat tomes, each positively bursting with knowledge. Hermione's mind cried out as a dying man in a desert would for water, and before she knew it she was halfway to the bookcase, ready to delve into the delicious wisdom when a faint groan froze her in her tracks.

It came from the bedroom, which no light shone into. Fleetingly she wondered if the professor was still in bed. Blushing profusely at this thought – seeing her Potions teacher in his night things wasn't on her to-do list – she made to leave when another groan reached her ears.

Surely he could just be having a nightmare? Shaking away this foolish thought immediately after thinking it, Hermione bravely summoned all the courage she could muster and strode purposefully toward the bedroom.

Before she could even register the dark mass hanging oddly near a desk, she found herself once again on the floor, this time flat on her face. Hermione yelped in pain as she met the stone floor for the third time that morning, and made to push herself up when her hands came in contact with something sticky. Screwing up her face in disgust, she sat on her knees and wiped her hands on her robes, only to find that they, too, were coated in the substance. It was a second later before comprehension hit her like a bludger: this was _blood_.

With a squeak Hermione was once again on her feet, wand out and lit to show a great portion of the floor around her covered in the viscous fluid. The entire front of her robes was coated in scarlet, as were her hands. She lifted one up to inspect it, and choked in panic as she caught sight of something that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

A man was hanging in chains suspended from the ceiling, attached to his wrists and neck. His torso was caked in dried blood; not a spot of flesh could be seen amongst the angry scarlet jacket he wore. The left wrist held in the shackle was hideously broken, as were the fingers. His shoulders were held at an odd angle, seemingly dislocated, and Hermione couldn't help but wince at the pain Professor Snape must be feeling. Yes; she had come to the obvious conclusion that the broken man hanging before her, covered in his own lifeblood, his hair bloody and lank against his face, was none other than her Potions Master.

For a few heartbeats Hermione stood gazing in shock at the scene, hands pressed to her mouth and heart viciously flogging her constricted throat. Suddenly she was standing face-to-face with the injured professor, not knowing or realizing when she had moved. Frantically she pressed two fingers against his throat, heavily disconcerted by the blood dripping slowly out of his mouth. Nothing. Almost in hysterics, Hermione crammed her fingers further into his neck, praying to any deity that would listen for him to still be alive.

An excruciatingly long second passed, and then – a slight beat! He was alive; Professor Snape was ALIVE! His pulse was slow and faint, but _he was alive_!

Relief flooded over her in a swift deluge, carrying all her remaining strength with it. Without realizing what she was doing, Hermione wrapped her arms around Professor Snape's bloodied torso and laid her head on his shoulder.

As soon as the weight of her head touched his abused shoulder, the Potions Master let out a scream of agony, frightening Hermione so much that she jumped away and slipped in another puddle of blood.

Flinging her arms like a deformed windmill, she managed to land on her knees instead of her bum. The professor was fully conscious now. Low, guttural moans wracked his throat, and his thin frame shuddered with pain. "Professor!" she exclaimed, rushing over to him and lifting his chin gently in her hands so she could see his face.

This, however, was apparently the wrong thing to do, judging by the reaction Professor Snape had to it. He yelped and jerked out of her grasp, but not before she caught sight of his eyes – pained, and brimming with fear she had never seen there before. Hermione suddenly felt a burning fury toward whoever was responsible for his condition. Severus Snape, a proud, quiet man, _never_ showed fear; _never_ allowed anyone to see any sort of weakness in him. To reduce him to such a horrid state was a sin worthy of the innermost circle of Hell!

"Don't worry, Professor," she said soothingly, though her voice was shaking with overpowering rage. She was loath to touch him again, due to his previous violent reaction, and settled instead upon whispering a string of encouraging words before rising to her feet and removing her wand from her pocket. "I'll help you."

She surveyed the scene before her with extreme scrutiny. The spell used to bind the professor and hang him from the ceiling was unknown to her. This greatly irked the brilliant student, as not knowing something was her greatest irritation. It resembled the Incarcerous spell, but that usually produced ropes, didn't it? Whatever spell had been used, it was a type of binding curse, and Hermione was almost certain that it was Dark magic. Just the thought of it curdled her stomach.

There was only one way she knew how to help, and even then, it might not work. Worse, it might hurt the already gravely injured professor even more. She anxiously twisted her wand in her hands, which had become rather sweaty. Finally, Hermione decided that there was nothing for it but to try the only spell that might work.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, Professor," she said to the dark man, who groaned in what sounded like an attempt at speech. She didn't have time to decipher it, however, and with a deep breath she levelled her wand and shouted, "_Finite Incantatem_!"

Professor Snape gave an unearthly howl as the chains attached to his neck and wrists became a brilliant red, burning his skin before they disappeared and deposited their prisoner into a bloody heap on the floor.

"Professor!" Hermione called out, rushing over to where he lay unmoving.

She only got a few steps when a voice suddenly called out, "_Locomotor mortis_!" Hermione's legs snapped together, and with a yelp of pain she found herself once again on the floor.

"Caught you in the act, I did!" a sneering voice gloated. "The Headmaster will _surely_ expel you for this, missy!" Alarmed by the savage glee in the voice, Hermione turned as far as she could. There in the doorway stood the caretaker, Argus Filch, and none other than Draco Malfoy, wand pointed directly at her.

The blonde Slytherin's expression was one of fury mixed with pleasure. "They'll have you out of here for this one, Mudblood!" he whispered savagely.

Utterly confused, Hermione managed to shift so she was facing Filch and Malfoy. "Whatever do you mean? I was – "

" – no excuses this time, Granger!" Malfoy interrupted gleefully. He cocked his blonde head to get a better look. "I'll remember this in my mind forever: the day that conceited little know-it-all got expelled…" He sounded absolutely delighted.

"But what did I _do?_ You _can't_ expel me for not _doing_ anything!" Hermione protested, face paling by the second.

"For attacking a _teacher_, Granger," Malfoy sneered, his pointed face lit up in glee. "I have to say I never thought **you** would stoop so low…Potty and Weasel, now those two I could imagine…but **you**?" He shook his head in mock admonition.

"What? You think _I_…b-but I couldn't…I'd _never_..!" Hermione spluttered, realizing that Filch and Malfoy though **she **had attacked Professor Snape. "I CAN'T be expelled!" she exclaimed lamely, eyes large with fear flickering between the jeering faces of her two accusers.

"**That** is up for Headmaster Dumbledore to decide," Filch replied nastily. He ordered for Malfoy to light a fire while he kept a close eye on her (_As if I'm going anywhere with my legs locked together, _she thought dully). Malfoy did as he was instructed and then changed places with Filch, who Flooed Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall.

Throughout their entire discourse, low moans of pain could be heard in the background. Despite her situation, Hermione was extremely angry at their treatment of Professor Snape, and blatantly told them so. "He's injured! He needs you help him right now, not yell at me!" she growled from the floor, wishing that she hadn't dropped her wand when she fell and that Malfoy would stop watching her every movement. "He's your _Head of House_, Malfoy! Don't you **care**?"

"Of course I care," the blonde Slytherin drawled. "But there's nothing I can do for him, so there's no point in crying over it like a bloody Hufflepuff," he added cynically. "Now shut up before I blow your head off."

Hermione had a sharp reply on the tip of her tongue ready to beat the little Snake into a simpering ball, when Madame Pomfrey and professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sprout, Flitwick and Gershwin stormed into the chambers in a whirl of robes. Hermione managed to grab her wand while Malfoy was occupied with the new arrivals and rid herself of the Leg-Locker Curse. Standing up, she turned to come face-to-face with a very tight-lipped Minerva McGonagall. Relief flooded her at the sight of her own Head of House, whom she knew to be a fair and understanding woman.

"What have you got to say for yourself, Miss Granger?" the Transfiguration professor demanded in a voice akin to ice. The relief she had felt just seconds earlier immediately vanished by the cold tone in her teacher's voice. Professor McGonagall thought she had attacked Professor Snape too!

Suddenly a heavy pit of despair weighted down her stomach, slightly overwhelming her with a fit of nausea. Hermione slowly lowered herself onto Professor Snape's bed, turning beseeching eyes onto Dumbledore when she was certain she wouldn't sick up. Light blue eyes met her own stare, but they were completely without their usual twinkle.

Suddenly, the situation became even more dismal than she could ever have imagined.

"Sir, I…I can explain."

* * *

A/N: Ohh…evil cliff hanger! Mwahahaha! So, how did you like it? Loved it? Eh…thought it was fine? Hated it? Please let me know! 

Various horrid essays, demonic government projects, evil psychology teachers, and wonderful fencing lessons may get in the way of regular updates from now on, but I still hold to my original vow. As long as at least one person likes this, it WILL be updated (how often I can't say at the moment) and it WILL be finished, if it's the last thing I do!

Next chapter: Hermione explains why she's in Snape's bedroom, Snape is attended by Madam Pomfrey and taken to the hospital wing for treatment (finally! Poor Snape!), Slytherins get angry, and Hermione discovers something about the equations that doesn't add up…

Tune in next time, and until then, please follow the eleventh commandment: **thou shalt review Ballad's story! **Lol. Oh, and my sis drew a chibi of Gershwin, so if you are interested, the link is http/www _dot_ fanart-central / pic-285922 _dot _html, except don't put in the spaces, use "." where _dot_ is and add ":" and "/" after the "p".


	5. 5: Numbers Never Lie

Erroris of Vestri Mores

By Shadow Ballad

A/N: Thanks once again for the reviews! You guys mentioned stuff I kind of overlooked…haha…those mistakes should be rectified here! Awright! ;) Don't worry; all will be explained in time… lots of explanations in this chapter, actually. Dumbledore is not unaware of everything, but cannot act due to overwhelming circumstances. Maybe Hermione _was_ a little OC last chapter, but thanks for pointing it out to me :hugs everyone:

* * *

Chapter Five: Numbers Never Lie 

The Headmaster frowned down his crooked nose at Hermione for a few moments. Suddenly he smiled warmly, startling the Gryffindor, who rather thought that he was quite angry with her. "Explain, Miss Granger? There is nothing to explain. I certainly do not blame you for the current situation," he said, giving her a small pat on the shoulder. He then turned his attention to the blood-covered stone, and with a wave of his wand, it became clean once again.

Bewildered, Hermione turned to Professor McGonagall, who was still tight-lipped. "B-but, Professor…you were angry with me…" she stuttered, head reeling and feeling quite as though she had missed something important.

The Transfiguration teacher nodded curtly. "You found Professor Snape injured, and you alerted no one! I thought more highly of you, Miss Granger," the stern woman said with a pronounced frown. Hermione, confused at finding that she wasn't being blamed after all, felt quite dizzy and placed a slightly trembling hand to her forehead.

"Now, now, Minerva," Professor Dumbledore said consolingly as he examined the once again unconscious Potions Master. "I'm sure Miss Granger did what she felt was right. She decided to stay and see if she could help him in any way; am I correct, Miss Granger?"

The girl in question nodded slightly, hardly believing the surprising turn events had decided to take in the past few seconds.

Two people, however, were _not_ at all pleased at the sudden bright light in Hermione's future. Filch looked as if he had just been told that Peeves was his new assistant. "But Headmaster Dumbledore, we found the girl _at the scene of the crime_! She's – "

" – not guilty, Argus," Professor Dumbledore said easily over the other man's protest while he and Madam Pomfrey attended to Professor Snape.

Malfoy, on the other hand, was gaping as if he had just been told that he had been Re-sorted into Hufflepuff. As if noticing the lack of his usual arrogant defiance, he quickly smothered a grin on his face. It wasn't steady, and faltered while Hermione watched from the bed. "I seem to have misunderstood you, sir," the blonde Slytherin drawled, "but you seem to have said that the Mud – er, Granger – wasn't guilty."

Dumbledore, who had conjured a bowl of water and a soft towel and was attempting to scrape the dried blood off of Professor Snape, gave the boy a genial look. "No, you heard me correctly Mr. Malfoy," he said, turning back to the patient on the floor.

Madam Pomfrey, who was helping, shook her head. "He needs the hospital wing, Albus," she said, giving the injured professor a sad glance. "I can't help him here."

The Headmaster nodded, and then turned to professors Flitwick and Sprout. "Pomona, Filius, would you help Poppy escort Severus to the hospital wing? I have some business here," he added at the two Heads' confused looks. They nodded, and as Professor Sprout conjured a stretcher, Madam Pomfrey and Professor Flitwick magicked Professor Snape onto it.

"Be careful," McGonagall said in an oddly strained voice as they passed her to exit the bedroom. Hermione gazed at her Head of House curiously before her eyes snapped back to Dumbledore as he cleared his throat.

"Argus, Mr. Malfoy, I thank you for your ardour, but your services are no longer needed," he said, gently dismissing the two shocked-looking people before him before following the procession leaving the room. Filch, his jowls quivering in rage, stormed from the room, closely followed by an incensed Malfoy. Before the Slytherin left, he gave Hermione a glower overflowing with hatred. He then stocked from the room.

Shaking her head in exasperation, the Gryffindor prefect got up from the bed and approached Professor McGonagall, who wore a pensive expression on her slightly lined face. "Professor," she said to get the other's attention.

The Transfiguration teacher jumped slightly, then turned to Hermione. Her lips were still thin, but not so tight; and the former out of clear worry. "Yes, Miss Granger?" she asked, returning to her no-nonsense attitude in the blink of an eye.

"Will…will he be all right?" Hermione asked quietly, allowing her stare to wander to the doorway recently vacated by the group heading to the infirmary. She rubbed her arms in the chill of the dungeon. Suddenly she wondered just how long Professor Snape had been hanging from the ceiling in the freezing cold.

"Of course, Miss Granger," McGonagall replied, startling Hermione out of her contemplations. "He's more obstinate than anyone I have ever met; don't you worry about Professor Snape." She gave Hermione a rare smile, though the girl noticed that it was rather strained despite the encouraging words before it.

"Ahem," a raspy voice cleared itself in the corner, alerting the remaining people to another person's forgotten presence.

Headmaster Dumbledore, who had accompanied the recovery party for a few corridors, returned at that moment and gave the man an amiable grin. "Well good morning, Theodore," he exclaimed, grabbing the teacher's arm and guiding him into the bedroom with Professor McGonagall and Hermione. "I don't believe you've yet had the pleasure of meeting our best student."

Hermione blushed at the compliment, but felt quite pleased nonetheless. She politely extended her hand to the blue-eyed teacher before her. "Hermione Granger, sir," she said, shaking his rather large hand. Despite his looks, he had a fairly strong grip that surprised her. He smiled warmly down at her, and she couldn't help but notice that the slightly tanned skin of his face appeared somewhat bruised. She shrugged inwardly, writing it off as an unfortunate meeting with Peeves or a particularly mischievous student.

"I'd like you to tell me as much as you can remember about what you saw when you first saw Professor Snape," he said gently, motioning for her to follow him into the living room. He flicked his long wand and the torches were suddenly bright with merry flames. Hermione blinked several times, finally closing her eyes until they became used to the abrupt glare as she lowered herself onto the sofa. Dumbledore and McGonagall followed, seating themselves in various chairs around the room.

She felt uncomfortable, sitting in Professor Snape's living room under the scrutiny of three professors. Nervously she bit her lip, folding her hands in her lap to stop from twisting them about her wand.

"Well, I…I didn't notice at first, since there was so much…so much b-blood on the floor," she said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. She allowed her voice to trail away, the full impact of the last ten minutes' events crashing down on her like an avalanche. _Her hands were covered in blood…her robes were covered in blood…_everything_ was covered in blood!_ Hermione shuddered, feeling suddenly very cold, wrapping her arms around herself and pushing further into the couch.

_How_ was she supposed to explain something she didn't quite understand herself?

A gentle touch on her knee brought her eyes forward, meeting the soft blue orbs of the Headmaster. His kind face was etched with worry. "Are you all right, Hermione?" he asked quietly.

Hermione nodded, giving Dumbledore a small smile to prove that she indeed meant it. The ancient wizard gave her knee a soft pat before leaning back, though his gaze never left her.

Gershwin cleared his throat softly, interrupting the moment. Hermione turned her attention to the new teacher, reassured by the Headmaster's support. "Don't say anything that makes you feel uncomfortable" he said soothingly, resting his elbows on his knees and giving her his full attention. "Just tell us the bare minimum of what we need to know to somehow piece it all together." His raspy voice was slightly irritating to Hermione, but that thought quickly evaporated when she reminded herself that he was the new Defence teacher and would hopefully know more about the binding curse that had been placed on Professor Snape.

Hermione nodded, and then took a moment to collect her thoughts. Where to begin? Should she tell them **why** she had been in the Potions Master's rooms in the first place? Would they even believe her if she decided to tell them? _"Just tell us the bare minimum of what we need to know…"_ Gershwin's words rang inside her head as if in answer to her quandary. No, she decided, they did not need to be told the why. They needed to know the _what_.

"When I found him, Professor Snape was…well…hanging from the ceiling from chains attached to his wrists and neck," she began, noting that Professor McGonagall's eyes widened in shock at this announcement. She filed this bit of information away before continuing her story. "He was absolutely covered in blood; it was awful," she added, unable to repress a shudder at the horrible memory of her blood-covered professor hanging from the ceiling like some grotesque ornament.

"His left wrist was broken, and his fingers were shattered, too. Both of his shoulders were dislocated as well," Hermione went on, wishing with every fibre of her being that the entire incident had not occurred and she was not being forced to relive one of the most terrible moments of her life. "I could barely obtain a pulse…"

The room was deathly quiet as the Gryffindor trailed off, her tale complete. Professor McGonagall's mouth had become a thin line, Dumbledore's hands were clasped a little too firmly in his lap, and Gershwin was frowning intently at a stone in the vicinity of Hermione's left foot. None of the adults spoke for a few minutes, for which Hermione was grateful; she did not feel like speaking after reliving the horrors of what seemed like both an eternity and a moment ago.

Abruptly Professor Gershwin's blue eyes snapped up from the stone they had been perusing and locked onto her face, giving Hermione a slight start. Brown gazed into blue for an intense moment before the professor broke eye contact. _His eyes…there was something in his eyes…_ the small voice in her head, forgotten in the horror of finding Professor Snape covered in blood, piped up. She frowned to herself; whatever did **that** mean?

Meanwhile, the man in question ran a troubled hand through his hair, tousling it up even more. "Obviously someone attacked him," he stated rather bluntly, drawing the stares of both professors Dumbledore and McGonagall to himself. "And obviously it wasn't a student," he continued, his long fingers beginning to drum nervously on the arms of the chair he had conjured earlier.

"I have never before heard of a binding spell the likes of what Miss Granger described," said Professor McGonagall, her brows coming together to form a long, stern line on her forehead. "The Incarcerous spell summons ropes to bind the victim, correct?" Gershwin nodded, still rubbing incessantly at his hair.

"I have read about such a Dark spell," the Headmaster said quietly, fixing both McGonagall and Gershwin with a serious gaze. At the woman's gasp, he nodded his head solemnly. "Yes, Minerva; the spell Miss Granger described is indeed very Dark magic." If it was possible, McGonagall's mouth became even thinner at this unpleasant revelation.

"Indeed," Gershwin agreed absently, his gaze now fixed upon the small table in front of the couch. Hermione was wondering what he was thinking about when she suddenly remembered how the chains had burned Professor Snape when she had used Finite Incantatem to end the spell.

"Er…professors?" she asked in a tiny voice, not wanting to disturb them in any way. Three sets of eyes turned her way, causing her to squirm under their pointed gazes. "I remembered something else, about the spell, I mean," she said quickly. Inwardly she berated herself for behaving like a child holding a broken vase behind her back, fearing a scolding; she was **not** guilty in this and therefore had nothing to hide.

"Go on, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said briskly, nodding her head encouragingly at the student.

"Er…I, er…I obviously got him down, you see, but when I did – I used Finite Incantatem, and – "

"You WHAT?" exclaimed Gershwin, interrupting Hermione's quick and slightly incoherent flow of information. Startled, Hermione jerked her eyes from Dumbledore and gazed at Gershwin, who was now sitting on the edge of his seat and rapidly tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.

"I, I used Finite Incantatem," she repeated, wondering why he had suddenly become so agitated. Did he know what it had done?

"Is there something wrong with that, Theodore?" Professor Dumbledore asked mildly, glancing quizzically but not unpleasantly at his Defence teacher.

Gershwin nodded irritably. "Yes, yes; there most certainly is. When someone uses Finite Incantatem on this binding spell, it burns the victim before the spell ends," he said rather hurriedly, flicking one hand in impatience. McGonagall raised her eyebrows at his sudden twitchy behaviour. He seemed to catch her expression, for he grimaced slightly and appeared to calm down. "It's effectiveness at burning the victim varies based on the strength of the one casting Finite Incantatem. If Miss Granger is as strong as you say she is, then Professor Snape should also be treated for rather severe burns."

"It is a good thing you know so much about this particular spell," Professor Dumbledore said, levelling the younger wizard with a slightly calculating stare. Gershwin shrugged but didn't quite meet the Headmaster's gaze.

"It's my job to know such things," he mumbled, then with a slight cringe, he looked up. "I had nothing to do with this, if that is what you are getting at," he said quietly. Hermione detected a faintly hurt tone beneath the raspy tenor of his voice.

Dumbledore held up his hands in a soothing gesture. "Now, now, I never said I was blaming you, Theodore," the Headmaster said gently. "But you know that I must ask you where you were after you left the Great Hall last night. Poppy informed me that Severus had been attacked around midnight," he added, the smile on his face hardly accusatory.

Hermione couldn't help but gasp; Professor Snape had been in that condition since _midnight_? She shuddered, not remotely able to imagine the immense pain he must have suffered until she had discovered him, and that had been more than six hours later!

"I was with Professor Sprout; she was giving me a tour of the greenhouses. Herbology was always a favourite hobby of mine," Professor Gershwin was saying, clearly relieved that the Headmaster didn't suspect him of attacking the Potions Master. After seeing the Defence teacher up close, Hermione couldn't help but grudgingly agree with Ron and Harry's assessment the previous day: he looked quite weak and not capable of hurting anyone.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands over her mouth at the sudden thought of her friends. The three adults looked quizzically in her direction, and she couldn't help but blush. "I just remembered…I'm supposed to be in the Great Hall for breakfast right now," she muttered, feeling embarrassed by her unceremonious outburst.

"By the clock on Severus's mantle, you're supposed to be in History of Magic right now, actually," Professor Dumbledore said conversationally, his trademark twinkle now back in his light blue eyes.

"WHAT!" Hermione shrieked, jumping from the sofa in absolute horror. She was missing a class! To top it off, it was the first History of Magic class of the term! She wasn't taking notes, and knew perfectly well that the two boys were in too much of a stupor by now to even think of it. She would fail! NO! She gripped her abruptly swimming head tightly in her hands, forcing herself to take measured breaths in an effort to calm down.

A warm chuckle interrupted her devastated thoughts of failure, and she looked up with a panicked expression on her face to see Albus Dumbledore smiling at her. "Don't worry, Miss Granger," he said genially, "I'm sure Professor Bins will excuse you." He then fiddled around in his robes for a few moments, exclaimed "Aha!" and took out a small sack filled with little yellow spheres. Grinning, he held out the bag to Hermione. "Lemon drop?"

Numbly Hermione shook her head politely, her mind still reeling about in devastated circles over missing the History notes. The bell rang to signal the end of first class, and her heart sunk within her chest to land somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. There was nothing for it. She sighed and resigned herself to copying notes from the entire first chapter of her textbook; she had learned long ago that Harry and Ron never even so much as remembered _what_ Professor Bins had taught them, and thus couldn't rely on them to give her an accurate description of the day's lesson.

Abruptly she realized that the three adults were on their feet as well, and that Professor Gershwin was addressing her. "…attend my class; it's the next one after the break for you, I believe; sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins together," he said, then gave her a small, nervous smile before dusting off his black teacher's robes and exiting the chamber.

At the encouraging smile from Dumbledore, Hermione followed suit, suddenly feeling very much like going back to bed and reliving the entire morning over again, it had been so awful. Malfoy surely had told all the Slytherins that she had "attacked" Professor Snape, and the way news spread around Hogwarts, everyone in the school ought to know by lunch, if not now. She remembered to snatch her parchments from the table she had laid them on upon entering before glumly making her way to the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom on the first storey. Half-way there Hermione suddenly realized that she had none of her books. Throwing her hands up in exasperation, she flung herself up the staircases to Gryffindor tower, all thoughts of the morning chased soundly from her mind.

* * *

"I cannot believe it, Albus; I just cannot," Minerva McGonagall stated with a fierce shake of her head. Many of the portraits on the wall gazed at her curiously, but the fiery professor was in no mood to be watched by paintings and growled at them to mind their own business. Beside her, Dumbledore raised his bushy white eyebrows in amusement. Minerva knew better than to snap at the Headmaster, so opted to ignore him instead. 

"What can you not believe, my dear Minerva?" Albus asked kindly as they strode together toward the hospital wing, footsteps echoing loudly on the stone floors. He fiddled absently with his bag of lemon drops, finally choosing a rather plump candy and popping it joyfully into his mouth. Minerva sighed inwardly, somewhere between feeling annoyed and reassured by this common gesture of his.

"That anyone would attack Severus!" she exclaimed, frightening a portrait full of geese into panicked flight. Ignoring the honking and squawking, she frowned down at the stones as if they offended her.

In her peripheral vision, she noticed Dumbledore pause in munching on the lemon drop and don a pensive expression on his lined visage. Deciding that he wanted to be left to his thoughts, she sighed quietly and delved into her own.

_Why_ had Hermione Granger been in Professor Snape's rooms in the first place? Granted, it was wonderful that she found him before it was too late, but what right had the girl in being there? When she had been retelling her tale of how she had discovered Severus – Minerva shuddered at the visual images Hermione's tale invoked – she seemed a bit, well, _uneasy_. It was as if the girl was hiding something; that she left something unsaid for reasons of her own. Hmm. She needed to speak with her…

"A Sickle for your thoughts, Minerva," Albus said playfully beside her, jerking her up from her deep contemplations.

Blushing slightly, Minerva shook her head and gave the Headmaster a rueful grin. "Oh, nothing important, Albus," she said dismissively as they stopped outside the wide double doors of the hospital wing. Donning her business-like façade once again, she nodded for Albus to open the door and usher the two visitors inside.

Dumbledore knocked politely and then pushed one door open, stepping aside for Minerva to enter. Both came in as quietly as possible. The surgically clean hospital wing smelled slightly like bitter medicine, and the white walls seemed a bit too bright in so sombre a place, especially when one considered the potential clientele.

Minerva looked around, immediately noting that the equally white curtains around one of the beds against the far wall were drawn up for privacy. Assuming that Severus was in this bed, Minerva strode briskly toward it. Just as she reached out to scoot the curtain open, Madam Pomfrey burst out from behind it. Both women blanched at suddenly seeing each other, which elicited a chuckle from the Headmaster as he joined them.

Poppy Pomfrey instantly recovered from her little scare, rearranging the neat stack of gauze and bandages in her arms. "He's resting," she announced softly before walking away and disappearing into her supply cabinet. Without another word, Minerva gently pulled back the privacy curtain and poked her head inside, hat and all.

Severus Snape did _not_ look happy. Well, considering that he was generally sneering or frowning anyway, he now looked absolutely lived, as if ready to spit nails. She suppressed a smile at his glower – it would **not** do well to rile him up before even speaking to him, after all – and opened up the curtain a little more so Albus could enter too.

Aside from not seeming happy, Severus looked absolutely _awful_. Minerva immediately felt ashamed by her earlier amusement and, sinking into one of the three stiff-backed brown chairs arranged by the bed, she couldn't help but frown deeply.

His entire torso was wrapped in gauze and bandages stained crimson where the wounds had reopened, and his left hand was set firmly in a stiff sort of cast infused with healing magic to accelerate the curative process. She noticed that the fingers were rather red and swollen, but otherwise whole and intact. Several bandages were attached to his face as well.

On top of it all, he was extremely pale, more so than usual, and what little could be seen of his upper body underneath all of the dressings was alarmingly thin. A white linen sheet was pulled up to his waist, giving the wizard a semblance of privacy.

Albus scooted past her and settled himself in the chair nearest to the injured wizard's head, taking up Severus's slender hand in his own. The Potions Master frowned and tried to jerk away, but Dumbledore held on tight and merely gave him a genial smile. "Hullo, Severus," he said gently, giving the still-protesting hand a comforting pat. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, quite _wonderful_, actually," the dark wizard replied acidly, "seeing as how I was nearly shredded to ribbons and am now lying in a hospital bed, covered in bandages like some bloody invalid!" Minerva flinched at this bitter diatribe but decided that, for once, the man had completely earned the right to complain all that he wanted.

"Calm down, child," Albus said consolingly, using his free hand to rub the Potions Master's shoulder. "You need to rest and heal."

"**Don't **call me _child_, Albus," Severus retorted plaintively, attempting to pull away from the affectionate gestures. Dumbledore ignored him and continued to hold his hand and pat his shoulder, smiling all the while.

Minerva, quite over feeling sorry for the dark-haired man, scooted her chair closer and adjusted her spectacles in a businesslike manner. Severus glanced at her from glaring at Dumbledore, who had taken to running a finger down Severus's cheek in a fatherly manner (clearly annoying and effectively embarrassing the younger wizard to no end). She cleared her throat to make sure Albus was listening, then smoothed her robes and launched into the questions she had been keen to ask.

"I'm sorry Severus," she began –

"No you're not," he snorted –

" – but I really must ask you some questions," she continued, ignoring the return of his usual sneer but noting it as a sure sign that he was healing well. He delicately raised a slender eyebrow at her in his trademark fashion.

"About what?" he asked flatly after a few seconds' appraisal. "If it's about the attacks, I don't remember anything about them."

This statement shocked Minerva, who wasn't prepared to hear such a confession. Beside her Albus stopped stroking Severus's long black hair for a moment as if this revelation startled him, too.

"You, you don't remember who attacked you?" she inquired, squinting hard at the patient in the bed.

"I believe I just said that, yes," he replied in a bored tone, and then, seemingly at the end of his patience, he grunted and jerked his hand away from Dumbledore and swatted the elderly man's hand away from his face. Albus's eyes twinkled mischievously, and the moment Severus returned his attention to Minerva, he snatched the Potions Master's hand and set to rubbing his shoulder once again. Severus gave him a withering glare but was soon directed back to Minerva by a rather impatient "ahem."

"If you please," she said sternly, giving Albus an accusatory look that the ancient wizard returned with his most innocent expression. She snorted, doubting that Albus Dumbledore had _ever_ been innocent. "Back to the matter at hand. I know you just told us that you don't remember who attacked you, but surely you remember _something_ about last night, don't you?"

Severus looked thoughtful for a moment, narrowing his obsidian eyes to near slits, apparently deep in thought. At one moment his eyes became glassy and he twitched, as though he were reliving his horrible experience. She felt wretched somewhere deep down inside for putting him through this, but at the present time information was more important than how comfortable anyone was.

"Severus?" she uttered softly, jerking him soundly out of whatever memory he had been lost in. Dumbledore never stopped rubbing the injured wizard's hand or shoulder, and for once, the Potions Master didn't object to the comforting.

"I, I can only remember being in a great deal of pain…" he stated abruptly. Minerva was disquieted by his slight falter; Severus Snape _never_ faltered. Her motherly instincts began to take over, and without really thinking about it she placed a hand on his knee. As soon as she touched him she froze, remembering too late his usual aversion to physical contact.

His eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline and his lip curled up in a sneer, but he miraculously didn't protest at all. She felt relieved, and at the same time a strange happiness that he had accepted the comforting gesture without comment or complaint settled over her.

"Perhaps you ought to tell us what happened from as far back as you can remember," Dumbledore suggested quietly, but before Severus could answer, Poppy suddenly reappeared with a few vials of potions.

"Time for another Blood Replenishing Potion," she said in her best nurse-like manner, overriding the patient's protests and managing to get the viscous scarlet concoction down his throat. Before she was finished she had coaxed a Strengthening Drought and a Pain Relieving Potion into him as well, then left with an apology and an admonition that the two visitors should hurry up and allow the other some rest. She closed the curtain with a gentle "shink," causing the material to ripple for a moment in the disturbed air before settling to hang lankly once again.

Dumbledore cleared his throat pleasantly and reassumed his previous position, one hand holding Severus's and his other stroking the wizard's shoulder. "If you would then, Severus," he said kindly but firmly, fully expecting the younger man to speak.

The Potions Master shuddered, seemingly not at all thrilled at having to relive his nightmare, but willing to do so for Dumbledore's sake. "I remember coming to my quarters and finding my wards dissolved, so I instantly knew it wasn't a student," he began quietly. As he spoke, Minerva noticed that nearby Poppy was cleaning a bedpan far too thoroughly, repeatedly wiping the same side. The Transfiguration professor smirked to herself.

"I looked all over my rooms, but didn't find anyone there. I recall checking the bathroom, and seeing someone in the mirror…after that, all I can remember is being in extreme pain before I finally lost consciousness," Severus continued. He fidgeted slightly but didn't pull away from either Dumbledore or Minerva's touch. "That's all."

"Is it?' Albus inquired kindly, and for a moment the younger wizard seemed keen to add to his story, but abruptly nodded his head and sank wearily back into the soft, white pillows at his back. Minerva tapped her lip appraisingly but didn't press the issue. After losing so much blood and expending precious energy by talking with them, he was surly exhausted.

"Thank you, Severus," Minerva said, gently squeezing his knee before retracting her hand and rising stiffly from the chair. Grimacing, she stretched her back, wishing that Poppy would keep more comfortable furniture next to the patients' beds. It would sure make visiting a more pleasant experience for the company!

"Yes, thank you dear child," Dumbledore added, giving the Potions Master a soft but jovial pat on the back.

"Al-bus," Severus said in a warning voice at the hated title, shifting fully back into Evil Professor Mode. The Headmaster just chuckled lightly and gave him a warm smile. Releasing Severus's gracefully slender hand, Albus quirked an eyebrow at McGonagall and drew back the curtain so she could exit first.

"When do you think he will be able to teach again?" the professor asked as they re-entered the corridor, clomping along the stone passageway amiably.

Dumbledore scratched the tip of his long nose and decided that his half-moon spectacles needed cleaning before he answered her. "It is inevitably Poppy's decision, of course, but I believe he shall be recovered enough to return on Friday," he finally said just as Minerva's patience was wearing thin. Satisfied, she nodded and lapsed into thoughtful silence until they came to an ascending staircase.

"I'm afraid this is where we part, Albus," she said. "My seventh years will be wondering where I am if I don't show soon." She took this moment to make sure the tight bun of hair was secure and settle her big black hat appropriately on her head.

"Ta, Minerva," Dumbledore said as she nodded politely and began up the stairs, her boots clomping against them. Suddenly the staircase decided that it wanted a change of scenery, and with a loud groan of shifting stone it rearranged itself. Above the noise Dumbledore thought he heard a few colourful Scottish curses hurled in reprimand at the offending stairway and chuckled low in his throat before turning on his heel and leaving her to her frustrations.

* * *

By the time Hermione reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, she was panting and sweating and utterly miserable. "Unicorn horn," she gasped to the Fat Lady, who smiled and swung open for the Gryffindor. Without so much as a thank you Hermione scrambled into the common room and positively groaned at the stairs to the sixth year girls' dormitory. Heaving a sigh of martyrdom, she took the stairs one at a time, bodily pulling herself up by the railing and nearly collapsing at the top. She had never anticipated how tiring getting up early, skipping breakfast and discovering a gravely injured professor made one feel. 

As soon as she recovered her breath, she strode to her bed and gathered up her satchel. The cool sheets of the bed felt wonderful against her warmish skin, and with another great sigh she allowed herself a moment of comfort lying on the soft bed, curled up with the fluffy pillows and silken crimson curtains…

"What is Young Miss doing here? Young Miss should be in class!" a squeaky voice erupted by her ear, jolting her awake with a startled scream and inadvertently flopping herself onto the floor.

"Ow," she murmured reproachfully, nastily aware of how many times she had fallen smartly on her bum that morning. She looked up and was immediately greeted with a shining pair of green tennis ball sized eyes and a rather long nose uncomfortably close to her own. "Dobby!" she shrieked, causing the elf to bounce away, looking slightly put out.

"Sorry, was only trying to help," he squeaked mournfully. "You is supposed to be in class now, so Dobby thought he would clean up," he added, wringing his hands with an air of an elf searching for suitable punishment.

Hermione, well over her initial shock at finding Dobby in her dormitory, instantly seized his arms and smiled warmly at the small, slightly ugly creature. "It's all right, Dobby," she said consolingly, hoping that he wouldn't grab her Defence book and whack himself about the head with it. His floppy ears perked up immediately and a big toothy grin spread across his face.

"I'll be gone in a second," she added, picking herself up when she was sure he wasn't going to hurt himself for startling her. "I just needed to pick up my books before heading to class."

Dobby cocked his head to one side curiously. "Why is Young Miss needing her books? Didn't she get them early this morning?" he squeaked questioningly. Hermione almost sighed, but thought better of it as Dobby might find this a sign of unhappiness and hurt himself in result.

"It's a long story, Dobby. Besides, I daresay you'll hear about it really soon," she added, making sure her smile really was a smile and not a grimace. The elf nodded, and with a sharp CRACK he disappeared.

Now that he was gone she let out a huge sigh and began gathering up her books. As soon as she placed the Defence book neatly inside the satchel, she remembered the parchments from this morning and reached over to add them to her bag. On a whim more than anything else she decided to shuffle through them again, hoping that they might lend any clues as to what exactly was going on.

It was on the last page, the page she had noticed Professor Snape's connection to the mystery, that she found something that could only be described as disturbing.

Professor Gershwin's name had two silvery lines connected to it.

People had one line connected to them, not two! Never two! Each person had only one life; thus, one line. For someone to have two…it was _impossible_!

And yet, there it was on the parchment. Clear as day. There was no disputing it. _"Numbers never lie,"_ as Professor Vector was fond of saying, and another check of her equations proved them correct yet again.

Frowning, Hermione folded the parchment and tucked it into a side pocket, slipping it carefully inside so as not to smudge the ink or cut it in any way. If she was so show it to the Arithmancy professor, it must be in prime condition to be as accurate as possible. Once again her heat began to quicken in her chest, but deep breaths quelled the adrenaline rush a few moments later. Whatever was happening, she would find out. And when she did, she thought determinedly, there would be Hell to pay.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore placed his wand wearily to his temple, withdrawing a silvery strand with it and depositing the wisp into the Pensieve on his desk. With a great sigh he took it between his wizened hands and swirled the contents around, watching as his thoughts took solid form. Suddenly a miniature version of Hermione Granger whisked its way to the surface. 

"_When I found him, Professor Snape was…well…hanging from the ceiling from chains attached to his wrists and neck," _the tiny student said in a slightly echoing voice. Sadly the Headmaster watched as she faded away to rejoin the rest of his thoughts in the Pensieve.

A lined hand reached up and tugged thoughtfully at his long white beard as he stared blankly into his office. Small trinkets sat all around him on shelves, some making small silvery noises, others emitting steam from time to time. Still others just sat there, shining in a non-present light source every hour of the day.

Across from him on a perch sat a brilliant red, orange and yellow bird roughly the size of a peacock. Fawkes, his loyal phoenix, chirruped musically and swished his brilliant, fiery tail as he shifted restlessly from foot to foot.

Dumbledore smiled at the bird, allowing his eyes to follow the sinewy movements of the wings as Fawkes shifted himself about. He reached out a hand to pat the surprisingly warm feathers, and the bird, sensing his need of companionship, trilled a soft note and glided over to light on the edge of his handsome wood desk.

"Hullo, Fawkes," the Headmaster said wearily as he stroked the beautiful animal. By all rights, he had no excuse to feel this tired; it was only 9:30 in the morning! And yet, here he was, sitting at his desk surrounded by heaps of parchment and myriads of unopened letters, mostly from the Ministry of Magic, and wishing he were back in bed.

To top it all off, someone was attacking his Potions Master, and he had a good idea who.

Problem was, he couldn't just sack the man. He had been the **only** applicant for the Dark Arts job, for Merlin's sake! Sending him away would just breed _more_ problems out of the ones he already had stacked on his plate.

He could contact Remus Lupin, of course. The werewolf was more than a competent teacher; he was extremely well-qualified, and had been very popular back in Harry's third year when he had been teaching Defence class. Albus had a right mind to Floo Lupin and beg him to take the job, but he knew the man had his hands full taking care of Sirius Black and readjusting his friend to the World on the Other Side of the Veil. Besides, many parents already knew that Lupin was a werewolf and would undoubtedly protest his appointment.

Well, there went _that_ idea plum out the window!

Dumbledore puffed his lips irritably, causing Fawkes to swivel his head about and glance curiously at his master. Absently the Headmaster stroked the bird once again, allowing his old fingers the joy of touching the warm, silken feathers.

If the parents thought a werewolf was a bad teacher, what would they say to a full-blown Death Eater?

He was ninety percent sure that this was what Theodore Gershwin was.

Of course, he had no solid proof. And he couldn't just walk up to the man and demand to see his left forearm. It just _wasn't_ done. Doing so would only multiply his problems exponentially.

His mind drifted about for answers, searching in every crevice of his immense knowledge for some kind of key to all the great mess in front of him. Unbidden, he suddenly found himself speaking with Minerva once again.

"_I cannot believe it, Albus; I just cannot."_

"_What can you not believe, my dear Minerva?"_

"_That anyone would attack Severus!"_

Albus mulled over their earlier conversation pensively in his head, one hand stroking his silky white beard absently. The only person he knew who wanted to attack Severus – not counting an infinite number of disgruntled students – was Lord Voldemort. That, however, was only in the likelihood should the Dark wizard discover that Snape was Albus's spy. Abruptly his heart skipped a beat at the thought. If Voldemort had cottoned on to the situation…Severus was in extreme danger! It would also explain Gershwin's appearance, and the fact that he had been the only applicant for the Dark Arts job…it had most likely been set up that way to begin with.

Dumbledore snorted derisively, startling Fawkes out of the tune he had been cooing in attempt to soothe the Headmaster. _Well, Tom,_ he thought to himself, _I will _not _let you have Severus! _Satisfied by this, he nodded his head and gave the phoenix an amiable pat on the head.

The only hitch in his desire to keep the Potions Master away from Voldemort was Gershwin. Steepling his fingers against his chin, the Headmaster of Hogwarts settled into his comfortable chair and narrowed his twinkling blue eyes in deep thought. There really was nothing sensible he could do except maintain the façade of ignorance to Voldemort's spy. Firing Gershwin just might anger the Death Eater enough to go on a murderous rampage, which would certainly be a disaster.

Besides, it might be useful to have one of Tom Riddle's henchmen in the castle. It would be easy to feed false information to him to further the cause of the Order.

Above all, until he had **proof** that the man was a Death Eater and was attacking Severus Snape, there was nothing Albus Dumbledore could do about it.

Well, _almost_ nothing.

Suddenly smiling, the ancient wizard picked up his quill and pulled over a blank piece of parchment in front of him. Humming softly to himself, he dipped the quill in his inkwell and began to write the note that he was sure would seriously alter the course of events.

* * *

A/N: Phew, that was long! Hope you guys don't mind. Thanks for the support and reviews you all have given me :sobs happily: 

Sorry if it was a bit boring; had to get this out of the way to set everything else in motion. Besides, I think it answers a few questions and puts some minds at ease about certain characters.

Please let me know if you notice anything blatantly wrong with this story; i.e. OOCness, gaping plot holes, and misinformation. Thanks!

Next chapter: The story spreads, Slytherins blame Hermione, letters are written and received, and a shaky alliance is formed between two unlikely allies.

Cheers,

Ballad


	6. 6: Serious Accusations

Erroris of Vestri Mores

By Shadow Ballad

A/N: Sorry for the long update; government debates and stupid English essays are so annoying:huffs angrily: Thanks for the reviews, and here's chapter 6! Enjoy!

Chapter Six: Serious Accusations

* * *

Damn all Gryffindors to the deepest circle of Hell! They were all so _bloody _annoying, what with their damnable nosiness and penchant for being where they weren't wanted! What right did a snoopy _Gryffindor_ have being in the dungeons in the first place? That was the Snake's territory, after all!

Draco Malfoy fumed silently in his Charms classroom – to which he had been extremely late – and completely ignored the other sixth-year Slytherins trying to charm mirrors into talking. The blonde clutched his wand in a death grip, glaring at the mirror in front of him and wanting nothing more than to smash it into silvery slivers.

"_Damn and blast, you bloody excuse for a human being!_" exclaimed Goyle's mirror abruptly.

Draco laughed with the rest of the Slytherins as tiny Professor Flitwick hurried over to a red-faced Goyle and quickly charmed the swearing mirror into silence.

The young Malfoy quite agreed with the inanimate object, especially since his thoughts were focused on a certain Gryffindor Mudblood at the moment. He scowled darkly, half-heartedly waving his wand at the looking glass and eliciting a blurb of baby gargle from it.

_Why_ had Granger been in the dungeons this morning? She had had a piece of parchment and seemed rather preoccupied when she had passed the entrance to the Slytherin common room. Then she had gone and done the unthinkable: she had entered Professor Snape's private quarters, unbidden!

Only a Gryffindor could be that stupid.

Every Slytherin knew that to enter Professor Snape's rooms without permission was suicidal at best!

Besides, the man was extremely private and hated to have his solitude broached by whinging students. Each child Sorted into the House of the Serpent learned **that **quickly enough indeed, and all respected the Professor for it.

But, alas, Gryffindors seemed cursed with a lack of common sense. Pity, really.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you going to sit there all period or do I need to assign you an essay?" Flitwick's squeaky voice pierced through Draco's contemplations. The boy winced but managed not to glare at the diminutive teacher.

"No," he said sourly, turning to his mirror and casting the charm perfectly. Instantly the object began to speak in rapid French, complimenting Draco's hair and asking him where he bought his clothes so it could get some too.

The Slytherin gazed imperiously down his nose at Flitwick, who nodded and awarded ten points to Slytherin before moving on to Crabbe, who had somehow managed to give his mirror a set of fangs and was now trying to dislodge his textbook from its mouth.

Deciding that he at least ought to _try _the lesson, he turned back to his own mirror and said, "_Bonjour_."

"_Bonjour!_" it chirped merrily.

"_Parlez-vous anglais_?"

"_Oui_!"

"Then speak it, you idiot!" smirked Draco.

"Now, now, there's no need to insult the mirror, young man. Just talk to it and see what it has to tell you," Flitwick reprimanded, panting slightly from the exertion required in dislodging Crabbe's book from his now-rabid mirror.

Draco scoffed, but decided against spitting his tongue out at the professor; that was childish, after all. Instead he sighed. "What could a stupid mirror possibly know anyway?"

"We know a lot of things, if you'd just bother to ask us," it replied in a hurt tone.

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow sceptically. "Yeah, whatever."

"But we do!" it insisted.

"Oh, talk to Pansy's mirror," Draco snapped, finally become annoyed with the talking inanimate object. At hearing Malfoy mention her name, Pansy swivelled in her seat to face him, thrusting her mirror in front of his and allowing them to converse in happy tones.

At the thought of Pansy, a sudden thought came to mind. Yes…it was perfect! If Granger was going to embarrass him in front of the Headmaster and a bunch of teachers, the least he could do was return the favour.

Smirking, he leaned in conspiratorially toward Pansy, watching her eyes light up in excitement. "Hey Pansy…you want to know why I was late?" She nodded eagerly, bending so close that her hair brushed up against his head.

He told her everything.

And added a little more. _Never play games with a Slytherin, Mudblood. You'll always lose!_

Pansy nearly shrieked in outrage when he was done embellishing the story. "I can't believe that little Mudblood would do that!" she exclaimed. "Just because Professor Snape doesn't worship her "brilliance" like every other teacher at Hogwarts doesn't mean she has to go and attack him! Ooooh, I'm going to KILL her!"

Draco nearly laughed at her ignorance. Hermione Granger, attack a _teacher_? Nonsense! No one but Pansy would believe such a story. Well, maybe Crabbe or Goyle would too, but no one else.

It was a confirmation of the girl's single-track mind that she didn't question the obvious holes in his story.

_Well_, he thought, _I didn't actually embellish it _that _much. Filch and I _did_ find her standing over him with her wand out, and she _was_ the only one down there. No excuses, either, I'm sure. Bloody Dumbledore and his stupid Golden Gryffindors. We'll see what happens next!_

Beside him, Pansy was already telling another girl the story Draco had just fed her. After all, Pansy Parkinson was the biggest gossip monger in the entire school. He allowed his handsome features to contort in an arrogant smirk. By lunch, everyone in Hogwarts would know about what happened to Professor Snape – and that Hermione Granger had done it!

* * *

Harry stared out the window in Binns's class, not even trying to pay attention to the ghostly teacher's dry lecture. He had bigger things on his mind. Namely, why Hermione Granger had decided to skip History of Magic class today.

Come to think of it, she had skipped breakfast too. In fact, he thought as he frowned at the brilliant sun-drenched lawn out the window, he hadn't seen her since she huffed and stalked back into the girls' dorm earlier that morning!

All of this was **very** un-Hermione-like.

Where was she? Taking notes was her joy; her very passion in life! Not to mention that she never missed the chance to hackle Ron and him about paying attention while a teacher was speaking. His frown deepened as his bottle-green eyes settled on the pale blue expanse of water that was the lake. Hermione had seemed incredibly annoyed the night before, and very distracted this morning. Since when did she _ever_ come out of the dorm dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown! Something was definitely up.

"Psst. Hey, Harry!" a voice to his left hissed insistently, knocking the young Gryffindor from his reverie. Annoyed, the bespectacled boy turned his head to glare at Ron, who was gathering up his things – along with everyone else in the class. "It's time to leave, mate."

"It's time to leave?" he repeated stupidly, finally aware of the fact. The redhead gave him a quizzical stare as he slung the strap of his bag across his shoulder.

"Uh, yeah? Didn't you hear the bell?"

"Er…no…" Ron's expression became even more bewildered at this announcement, causing his freckles to stand out on his face rather prominently.

"You feeling okay, mate? You seem a bit…off," he said with an air of talking to someone not quite right in the head. "I mean you usually fall asleep in this class anyway – who doesn't? Well, Hermione doesn't, but – "

Suddenly Ron gasped, his eye wide, earning a strange look from passing classmates. "Bloody hell; Hermione!"

"Yeah, remember her? She's our friend, you know," Harry said slowly as if Ron was a particularly dense five-year-old. Ron swatted an impatient hand at the other and continued walking at a brisker pace.

"She didn't show up to class!" he said concernedly. "I didn't notice because I was staring out the window, but now that I think about it, she never showed up!" He looked vaguely guilty about not noticing the absence of his friend, but since she usually took notes while the two boys sunk into a stupor, it seemed probable that they wouldn't have noticed her.

"I can't _believe_ I didn't notice…" At this statement he blushed, causing his face to clash horribly with his hair. "N-not that that means anything, mind you…after all, she, well, er…yeah." He stammered his way into silence while Harry fought against a grin that desperately wanted to plant itself on his face.

Ever since their second year at Hogwarts, Harry had suspected that Ron fancied Hermione. The subsequent events of the past years – especially his reaction to Krum at the Yule Ball; _that_ had been a complete fiasco! – only served to solidify his suspicions.

He almost wished they'd both admit it and get it over with.

"She's probably fuming at missing out on taking notes," he said conversationally to ease his friend's embarrassment. Ron made a funny noise in his throat but seemed to regain control of his vocal cords.

"Er…yeah, probably so…" he agreed as they approached the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom. Many other Gryffindors were milling about by the door, chatting softly to each other while other students passed by to their own classes.

The two boys were just about to enter when a chorus of angry shouts rose from behind them. As they were turning curiously to see what the commotion was all about, a head of bushy brown hair flew around the corner and smacked right into Ron. Both went down in a tumble of arms, legs and book bags. Whoever had been casing the ruckus behind them was now lying on top of Ron as parchments floated lazily to the floor.

"Erf," the redhead moaned just as the girl said, "Ouch!"

In a moment of complete shock Ron stared at Hermione, and Hermione stared at Ron.

A split second later both Gryffindors were standing far apart from each other, blushing profusely and dusting off their uniforms while their classmates sniggered at their embarrassment.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry; I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing, I had to get my books, and I was running late…" Hermione babbled, breathing hard from her run and collision and not quite meeting Ron's wide blue eyes. He didn't seem particularly sorry that she had chosen to run into him, but Harry knew his friend would rather play Quidditch for Slytherin than admit it in front of Hermione.

"N-no problem," he managed to get out, his face flushing a violent scarlet colour despite his attempt at cool indifference. Hermione seemed too flustered to notice, but that didn't mean no one else did.

"So, Weasley, finally found yourself a girlfriend?" a particularly unwelcome voice drawled. The air in the corridor suddenly became pregnant with nearly palpable tension. Ron's face deepened to an interesting shade of crimson as he turned to glare at the pale-haired Slytherin addressing him.

"Bugger off, Malfoy!" he snapped, drawing his wand from his robe pocket. Draco merely gave him an arrogant sneer, but it was sadly lacking in the ferocity Snape managed to put into his own.

"Don't worry, Weasel-Head; I'd be embarrassed if _my _girlfriend was a lying Mudblood too," he riposted, flashing a meaningful glance at Hermione, who was bent double collecting her scattered parchments.

If the tension was nearly palpable before, it could now be cut with a knife. Angry Gryffindors clenched their fists and scowled at the smug blonde, who seemed to feel quite secure between his two enormous cronies. Hermione was valiantly attempting to prove that the obscene slur didn't bother her, but her face had become very pale and her hand shook slightly as she reached out for the last of her papers.

"You," said Ron in a deadly whisper, "will **pay** for that!" With a feral snarl he levelled his wand at Malfoy just as the door to the classroom swung open, intercepting the jinx meant for the Slytherin. Everyone in the hallway flinched as the magic collided with the wood in a spectacular KABLAM, but none more so than pale-faced teacher standing in the doorway.

Upon close inspection, Harry began to wonder if this new professor could handle the job of Defence teacher. If a student-powered jinx smacking into a door set him off this badly – he was shaking slightly as he ushered the students into the room – he hated to think about what he would do if something dangerous actually happened.

Well, maybe that wasn't a fair assessment. The man reminded him of Quirrel, the teacher in his first year who had harboured the spirit of Lord Voldemort in the back of his head. Professor Gershwin didn't wear a turban and certainly didn't stutter, but he seemed quite fidgety and wore a perpetually nervous half-smile on his sharp face.

Harry took his seat at a table near the front, Hermione plopping her book bag on the desk to his left and Ron taking up the spare seat next to Hermione. Harry glanced about the room, thankful beyond all reasoning that it was no longer dominated by repulsive frolicking kittens and frilly pink lace as it had been in Umbridge's day. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of that woman, the scars on the back of his right hand giving a sharp twinge of pain. In fact, it was now decorated in soft earth tones with a few potted plants meticulously placed about. The scent of fresh soil permeated the room, and Harry caught Neville glancing at a particularly interesting plant with violently orange blossoms not far from the desk he had chosen.

Ron, he noticed, was deep in conversation with Hermione. Feeling slightly put out, Harry leaned forward and managed to catch a few words of their chat. "…Malfoy said? Where _were_ you this morning, anyway?"

Hermione pursed her lips, and the Boy-Who-Lived was shocked to see a faint tinge of pink colour her cheeks. "I'll tell you later!" she hissed as Gershwin cleared his throat and began to speak to the class. Harry rather thought he'd like to hear Hermione's story over what the teacher had to say, but as the studious girl refused to say anything more, he sighed grumpily and turned his attention to the front of the classroom.

"Good morning, sixth years," Gershwin was saying, a nervous smile playing at the corner of his mouth. The students made noises of greeting, and only Hermione bothered to return it with a proper "good morning." He cleared his throat once again and moved behind a large podium, gripping its sides with his hands and drumming his long fingers nervously on the edges.

"Welcome to Defence against the Dark Arts! For those of you who don't remember me from the first day of term, I am Professor Gershwin. Now, it is my understanding that I am your sixth teacher to fill this post," he continued on in his raspy tenor voice. "Depending on various opinions, that can be good or bad. Good, in that you were exposed to various teaching styles; bad, in that you received – er – shall we say, a few less-than-satisfactory instructors in the process." He paused here as the students muttered in generally agreeing tones. Harry suspected that, like him, they were thinking about one well-hated toad in particular. _Well, maybe not the Slytherins_, he decided bitterly, _seeing as how most of them sucked up to her and were members of her little Inquisitorial Squad._

Gershwin was now shuffling some papers on the podium, tapping his foot in the process. _Did the man ever hold still?_ "Hmm. According to these reports, you had an especially _defunct_ professor last year," he quipped wryly, glancing up with a small grin at the students appreciating the slur against Umbridge. Harry joined in the soft laughter with his classmates, convinced that anyone who poked fun at Umbridge was someone he would like.

After allowing the students to have their fun, Gershwin motioned for silence and once again shifted through the papers. "I thought we'd spend today practicing the application of many of the jinxes and defence magics you studied last year; after all, not all of you were able to actually perform them on a regular basis." Here, his watery blue eyes met Harry's, and for a split second he wondered if Gershwin knew about last year's D.A. Eye contact lasted for only a moment, and when the teacher looked away, Harry was uncertain if he imagined the knowing look in those eyes or not.

"Now, we – " a sudden knocking at the door interrupted the lecture, and after a slight flinch Gershwin asked Neville to go and see who it was. The round-faced boy carefully made his way past the orange-flowered plant – by his actions, Harry assumed it was somehow dangerous – and reached for the door as it opened to permit a stern-faced Professor McGonagall. Neville squeaked in surprise and hastily backed away from the teacher.

"Theodore, I need to speak with you," McGonagall said in rather clipped tones. Apparently she was unhappy about something. Movement to his right caught his eye, and he noticed Hermione fiddling intently with her quill as if it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen. The slight pink that had tinged her face earlier was back in full force. She adamantly refused to look up at McGonagall, who was eyeing her with curious scrutiny. Harry supposed it had something to do with why Hermione wasn't in History of Magic this morning, but didn't dare ask until Gershwin excused himself and followed Professor McGonagall out the door.

As soon as the slender teacher's robe flitted past the jamb, he whirled in his seat to face Hermione, noticing that Ron too was eyeing her expectantly. Harry opened his mouth to interrogate her about where she had been, but before he could utter a single syllable, another voice interrupted.

"So, Granger; is it true?" Harry turned slightly in his chair to scowl at Pansy Parkinson, who had a predatory gleam in her eye. Alarmed, the Boy-Who-Lived glanced back at Hermione, whose blush had become rather pale.

"Is what true?" Hermione asked in a flustered voice, keeping her eyes on the parchment in front of her.

Pansy grinned at the Gryffindor's obvious discomfort. What she said next came as a great shock to Harry. "That you attacked Professor Snape?"

By now, everyone was listening to the conversation with varying expressions of incredulity among the Gryffindors and grim knowledge among the Slytherins.

Hermione's eyes flew from her desk as she swivelled violently in her seat to face her accuser. "That I…? You actually think that I _attacked_ him?" Her voice was mixed with bewilderment, and an odd undercurrent of fear. Astonished, Harry gaped openly at her, as did Ron.

Pansy nodded, giving Hermione a wicked smirk worthy of Malfoy.

"But I would _never_ do that! You know me, I would never attack a teacher!" exclaimed the Gryffindor genius, panic starting to creep into her voice as it escalated in pitch.

Her accuser merely shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe all that obsessive studying has finally made you snap." She screwed up her face in an expression probably meant to represent insanity, but only succeeded in making her look like a pug with a tooth ache. Harry gave her an ugly frown, now well over the shock of the initial accusation.

"Never!" Hermione snapped hotly, colour returning to her face once again.

"Well, she does have a point with the "obsessive studying" thing…" said Seamus in a not-so-subtle voice to Dean Thomas. Hermione, Harry and Ron glared hotly at the offending boy, who shrank away from them with muttered apologies.

"I didn't attack him, and I never would."

Pansy, who seemed distressed that she no longer had a captive audience, whinged out, "Then _why_ were you in the dungeons this morning!"

Harry spared a moment to give his friend an incredulous look. Hermione, in the _dungeons_? All eyes were upon the bushy-haired girl, who had deflated from her previous anger into a state of nervous anxiety.

As she explained, beginning with finding blood all over Snape's bedroom floor, gasps echoed in the room. Lavender Brown actually fainted when she told them in what state she had found the Potions Master, and Parvati Patil had to catch her to stop her from falling on the floor.

"That's everything," Hermione finished a few minutes later to stunned silence. Pansy, however, seemed determined to blame Hermione for the accident.

"Well, how did you know he was hurt in the first place?" she asked with the air of someone grasping for straws, no matter how flimsy.

Harry fully expected Hermione to lash back with an intelligent answer only she could understand, but to his great surprise, his friend lowered her gaze to her desk. "I…it's…hard to explain," she finally said, not meeting anyone's gaze. She drew a stack of parchments in front of her to her chest defensively and finally met Pansy's triumphant gaze.

"Ha, that proves it!" the pug-like girl shrieked gleefully. "You attacked him just because he never gives you points and doesn't worship you like the other teachers, you insufferable know-it-all!"

At this, Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously and she leaned in toward Pansy. The other girl's laughter faded slightly as Hermione's angry visage came very close to her own. "That is the lamest excuse anyone could use to attack someone, least of all me!" she hissed menacingly. Harry made a mental note to never annoy Hermione when she had skipped breakfast.

Pansy visibly struggled to recover from this uncharacteristic fervour, her shrug not as nonchalant as it could have been without the slight trembling. "W-well, I guess you're just lame, then," she retorted, gaining back her confidence with each word. "After all, you _are _a **Gryffindor!**" Pansy spat the word as if it were obscene, which to a Slytherin, it probably was.

The Gryffindors present, however, did **not** appreciate it. At all.

Thus, all pandemonium broke loose.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this took forever getting posted! School is seriously annoying right now. Don't teachers realize fan fiction is what's **really** important! Pooh; I wish. Anyway, just thought I'd post what I had so far to let people know this isn't a dead story! Chapter Seven is in the works and should be a lot better, as the alliance between Hermione and Snape is (finally!) formed. So…thanks for waiting, those who did! See you next chapter!

Cheers,

Balld


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